


Paris After The Fall

by gatergirl79



Category: Sherlock (TV), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, M/M, Paris (City), Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatergirl79/pseuds/gatergirl79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as Peter Guillam was….Tolerable. He had a nice comfy flat, a job and he had a boyfriend. But then a face from the past arrives in Paris. </p><p> </p><p>SLASH. NO BETA. Spoilers for season two finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy a couple of weeks ago and finally got around to watching it. I loved Benedict in the movie and it sparked my imagination. It's kind of a crossover, in that it contains characters from TTSS. Peter's boyfriends name seems to be universally acknowledged among TTSS fiction as Richard, so I kept to that. (HE IS NOT MORIARTY) If you haven't seen the movie, it's alright. It's not important to my plot. Though if you haven't seen the second season of Sherlock, you are warned this story contains spoilers. Sorry if the title sucks, couldn't think of anything else.
> 
> WARNING: NO BETA. SPELLING/GRAMMAR MISTAKES.

Life as Peter Guillam was….Tolerable.

He had a nice comfy flat, but it never really felt like home. He had a job that was… well…dull, predictable and nowhere close to what he enjoyed. - And he had a boyfriend, who was relatively good company but just wasn't….

He couldn't really tell how he'd ended up in a long term relationship; you could probably deduce it was rooted in boredom, loneliness and the need for someone to distract him from his new unadventurous life, along with the need not to be himself. But he'd never expected to actually last. He hadn't expected it to become….easy. It wasn't living with someone that was new; he'd done that for years before circumstances had brought him to Paris. It was sharing a bed with someone. Before he'd never seen the attraction, but boredom had always made him lash out.

Peter had met Richard at a Café during a lunch break from his tiresome job. They'd got talking and well things had just progressed. Richard was interesting in his own way and for Peter that was all that mattered. Though he'd never been quite interesting enough to make his life in Paris completely happy, but then, little could. Richard also help detract attention from him, gave him a smoke screen to hide behind.

Richard didn't know Peter's true identity, didn't know that Peter had deduced every detail of the man's life within five seconds of their meeting. That Richard was a teacher at the local school. That he'd lived in Paris for nearly ten years. That he was born in Southampton, that his father had been a fisherman and his mother a teacher. That he had three brothers, all older. And that most importantly he was very attracted to Peter, no Richard didn't know that the man he'd been in a relationship for almost two years was in truth, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, genius - and dead man.


	2. Chapter 2

"Paris!" Mary squealed, staring down at the tickets.

John smiled at the pure joy on his wife's face. "Happy Anniversary." he bent to peck her cheek.

"I - I can't believe it." The red head leapt to her feet, flinging her arms around her husband. "You're the best husband in the world. You know that."

John shrugged, laughing. "I do try."

It warmed his heart to see the happiness his present had put in the face of the woman he loved . He hadn't been sure what to get her for their first anniversary until he'd been walking past the travel agents and seen the Paris deal. If he was honestly it couldn't have come at a better time. Life in London at the moment was just too hard. The murderer known in the press as the Hammersmith Hangman was terrorizing the city, out witting Scotland Yard at every turn. And reminding him constantly of how dull his life was now without his best friend.

He was reminded of Sherlock every time a big case it the headlines. Every time someone said it was a shame Sherlock Holmes wasn't there to solve it. It was amazing how now the man was dead, everyone believed in him utterly.

"When do we leave?" Mary asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Next Friday." John smiled, wrapping his arms around his wife and pushing all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Three years. Sherlock sighed taking a deep drag from his cigarette. Three years and they were no closer to dismantling Moriarty's evil little web that they'd been when he'd first crossed paths with the madman. It was meant to have been simple. Mycroft had promised him that. Get the man's attention, feed him enough win's and loses to draw him out into the open and then reel him in. That had been the plan.

But they'd underestimated the man. And neither had counted on the complication a certain ex-army doctor would bring. In hindsight Sherlock knew he shouldn't have gotten involved with John Watson. The man hadn't just thrown a spanner in the Holmes brothers plans, he'd jumped in full clothes. He'd given Moriarty a weapon to use against them. Mycroft had said afterwards that he should have known John would become a complication. That he should have been more forceful when they'd met. But he'd been surprised by John sudden show of loyalty and hadn't seen past the thought of actually having someone capable watching his baby brothers back. He could never have guess how deep their friendship would go.

Sherlock hadn't known either. How could he have? He'd never met anyone like John before. Someone who respected what could do. Who actually loved to watch him work. And who he could rely on utterly with his life. Of course that had been his mistake. He'd allowed John to get under his skin. To change him in a way he hadn't even realised. - To knock him off his life's path. - It had all been so simple before John Watson.

"Peter." Sherlock looked up and groaned as Ricki Tarr dropped down across from him.

Why his brother had assigned such a crude obnoxious bastard as him to play go between Sherlock couldn't fathom. "Tarr."

The man ordered himself a latte and pulled his tin of roll ups out of his pocket. Lighting on. After a few sharp puffs he acknowledged Sherlock. "So Peter….shouldn't you be at work in that nice cool office of yours?" he smirked.

Ricki knew how much Sherlock, - Or Peter, as everyone in Paris knew him. - hated him job. And hated the small poky little office that was like working in a boiler. He'd complained about it enough. Demanding that Ricki take a message to 'Mr Smiley' as Ricki sarcastically called his brother, about getting him something more exciting and suitable. Mycroft of course always pointed out that excitement was what had landed him in Paris in the first place. - And that a little 'normality' would do him a world of good. Which Sherlock knew meant shut up and keep your head down. So Sherlock carried on in that very British way.

He kept to his boring little life doing exactly what Mycroft told him, as he always did. Which meant working in that hell, answering to people who had less brain cells than Anderson on a good day, keeping quite as he watched government officials drinking themselves into stoopers, sleeping with their colleagues wives and girlfriends and selling official secrets at the drop of a hat. Because Mycroft had made it abundantly clear that he had to vanish, for good. Because if anyone discovered that the great detective Sherlock Holmes was alive, he would be standing over three fresh graves before the ink was dry on the morning papers. - And Sherlock by no means could allow that to happen.

"What do you have for me Tarr?" Sherlock asked tightly, taking another drag of his imported cigarette.

Ricki was silent till the waitress left the table after laying his cup down. "Sam old shit. Nest is full." Ricki sighed, lifting the small cup.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. It was Mycroft's very simple way of telling him everything was alright. That everyone was alive and well. And that he hadn't been found out. His brother sent the same message every three months like clockwork. His way of keeping his younger brother under control, Sherlock knew.

Taking a deep breath Sherlock slouched slightly in the chair. "Anything else?"

Ricki rolled his eyes. "You know there is. Same shit, different day." the rough looking blond grumbled. "Old lady hasn't found any spiders. - Seriously, I don't know what is with the boss. Doesn't he know the cold wars over. People don't pass fucking secret messages using spy-speak in this day and age." Ricki scoffed.

Sherlock had to agree with him. But Mycroft was very much of the old school over certain things. Sherlock swore his big brother thought he was in a John le Carre novel. He was sure he'd modelled his entire carer on James Bond's M or someone.

"Do I take it I have to carry back the same old shit from you too." Ricki complained with a wary sigh.

"If you wouldn't mind." Sherlock nodded, pushing the book across the table.

Ricki looked down at the novel and rolled his eyes. "I swear Smiley must have a whole library of these." he remarked causally. "Do you think he's ever actually read it?"

Sherlock smirked. "I don't it." knowing for a fact that his brother hated  _'All Quiet On The Western Front'_. Which was precisely why Sherlock had chosen it as his 'alls well' signal.

Ricki knocked back his coffee and stabbed out his half smoked fag. "Alright then. See you in another three months." he turned to leave but paused. "Oh….How's the boyfriend?"

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at the man.

Ricki grinned. "What? We've been doing this little dance for three years Peter. A little common courtesy isn't all that weird is it? I'm just doing what normal people do when they meet. Asking after family."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment. "How did you…"

"Saw you together the last time I was in town. Have to say, he wouldn't have struck me as your type."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "And pray tell, what do you deduce is my type?"

Ricki looked him up and down in his chair and shrugged. "A little more rough and tumble, someone who can put you in your place."

Sherlock's face burned. "Fuck off Tarr. Before I put you in your place."

The man chuckles. "Hit a nerve did I? Wow, things not all hearts and flowers."

Sherlock got to his feet with fury in his eyes. Ricki was still laughing as he rushed away.

Sherlock fell back into his seat and close his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had to find a way to get word to Mycroft about finding someone else to deliver his message, before he wound up doing Ricki Tarr some serious injury. Who did the man think he was talking about his relationship like that? Questioning his and Richard's compatibility. Sure Richard wasn't exciting but he was at least interesting and a decent person. He never pressed him about his past or his work. He'd been incredibly understanding when it came to taking their relationship forward. In fact all in all, Richard was the kind of man anyone would be lucky to share their life with. - There was just one problem. He wasn't John.

With a world wary sigh, Sherlock stabbed out his cigarette and got up from his chair. Shrugging into his navy Macintosh. Turning away from the table blindly and without thought of there being anything but open-air behind him, his mind focused on what Tarr had said. That was how he hadn't seen the man appearing out of the alleyway beside the café. That's why he hadn't swerved to miss him and had instead colliding with the immoveable force.

His hand shot out on instinct, before his mind could register just what had happened. Or who was in front of him. "Sorry. I wasn't…." he trailed off and stared. As if a genie had read his mind and summoned up his deepest desire. He stared down at the shorter man. He looked good, though there were signs of a lack of sleep. He had a few more creases around the eyes and a little more grey in his hair. Sherlock wondered how much of that was due to him.

He quickly became aware that they were standing in the middle of the street just staring at each other. It was bound to attract attention and they couldn't risk that. Sherlock reacted without due care and attention. Later he'd ask himself why he'd taken such drastic steps, but right now he just took them. Gripping the ex-soldier by the face and crushing his mouth down on his.

John stood looking up at him, his face pale as if he was seeing a ghost, which for all intense and purposes he was. He couldn't take his eyes off him. "Sheeerrrr…" John's eyes widened impossibly, confusion and shook slamming into him. His back connected with the brick wall of the alley, knowing the breath out of him. What was happening? He lifted his arms to push the man away only to find them wrapping into the navy fabric at his arm.

Sherlock told himself to step back. That he'd done what he'd wanted and taken them out of public view. Now he just had to stand back and explain to his friend just what was going on. - But he didn't. He didn't move back, only forward. His palms still pressed possessively on either side of John's face and his body inching closer, till they were chest to chest. Part of Sherlock's brain acknowledged that this was not right. Another part acknowledged that John was reacting the way he would never have expected. In fact John's reaction at present was so totally out of character for the man; Sherlock actually began to wonder if he wasn't dreaming. If this was a desperate wish conjured up by his brain and that he was actually kissing a complete stranger, because he so wanted his old life.

He was about to pull back and shake off the insanity when he felt John's lips part beneath his and his heart leapt into his throat. What did it matter if it was just a dream? Dreams couldn't hurt anyone. He relaxed into the kiss, his hand shifting around to cradle the back of John's head. He felt John's fingers cling to his sleeve. So he pressed his body forward against the solidity that was the former soldier. His tongue slide inside the warm heat of the other month. His tongue swirling around, tasting every inch of the other man, his friend. His colleague. His dream.

John matched every movement the taller man made, sending sparks through his body, straight to his groin. It felt like eternity. Just the two of them. Cocooned in their own little world where nothing could threaten them.

Then Sherlock was pulling away. His breath coming in sharp pants as he looked down to see he hadn't been dreaming and the man was no stranger. It was John on the over end of that connection and his whole world tilted to the side. He was there. He was really there. Why? Sherlock's heart began to pound in panic. What if someone saw him? Saw them? Everything would be ruined. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be killed.

Sherlock was so caught up in his worry that he wasn't prepared for the punch that landed on his jaw. Sending one half into the other with a loud cracking sound. His mouth filled with the taste of iron and he rolled it around before spitting the ball of blood onto the ground at John's feet. He swept the back of his hand over his mouth and took a breath. Calming himself finally he met the ex-soldiers blue eyes with a cold blank stare. When he spoke his voice was like ice.

"I suggest you return to your wife." his gut clenched at the sight of the ring on John's finger. "Before she misses you." he swallowed hard.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, his voice carrying a hit of anger.

Sherlock drew his brows together in fake confusion. "Sorry? - My name is Peter and as much as this little…tryst was a pleasure, for the most part, I really have to get back to work." Sherlock delivered the words with perfect detachment.

On surprisingly steady legs, Sherlock turned and strolled causally out of the alley, the feel of John's eyes blazing into his back.


	3. Chapter 3

John was still in shock when he walked back into his hotel room. He acknowledged his wife's present but didn't look at her. Instead he turned and headed straight for the bathroom. Closing the door and locking it, John fell onto the closed toilet seat. His head falling into his shaking hands.

Sherlock was alive. It had most defiantly been Sherlock. Despite him introducing himself as Peter, it was the detective. He knew it in the deepest darkest part of his soul. How was he alive? What was he doing in France? Did Mycroft know? The questions just kept on coming. But the question that pressed to the front of his mind was why had he kissing him? The inquiry and memory had John's hand trembling dangerously.

He was on his feet retching into the toilet before he realised what he was doing. The shock of the whole situation crashing down on his. His mind called up the last time he'd spoken to the man. The last words they'd said to each other. It played itself over in his mind in slow motion. Sherlock stepping off that ledge. The fall. The pain. It had taken him over a year of therapy to get over that. And now, just as his life was settled, here he was. Back from the dead. - And kissing him.

John continued to empty his stomach into the toilet. Tears burning his eyes as he did so. Pounding in his chest, head and vein. The whole world seemed to have altered surreally. Swallowing hard, John fell back against the bathroom wall, his head resting on his raised knees. His shoulders shaking as he cried tears he'd thought he'd never have to cry again.

"John?"

Mary's voice through the door did nothing to comfort John. In fact it added to the pain of the situation. Piling guilt on top of the confusion and shock. Guilt over how he'd reacted to Sherlock's kiss. That he hadn't fought him off but had embraced him. Had lost himself in that moment with all-consuming joy.

"I - I'm fine." he called back weakly.

"You don't sound fine. John let me in." Mary insisted panicking.

"Really…" John took a deep breath and calmed himself enough to ease his wife's anxiety. "Really Mary. I'm fine. - I just…I ate something while I was out and I….it's not agreeing with me."

"Do you want me to get you something? Do I need to call a doctor?"

"It's fine. I've vomited most of it up. I just need to cool down and rising my mouth." He left his head fall back against the cold tiles and closed his eyes.

"If you're sure."

"Hmmm. I'll be out in a minute." John insisted, craving silence.

The room fell silent, Mary obviously returning to the main part of the room. With his eyes closed his mind conjured up the memory of seeing Sherlock in that street. He could feel the man's hands against his skin and his mouth covering him, and his stomach protested once more. Thankfully there was nothing left to empty into the bowl, so he scrambled to his feet and headed for the sink. Tuning on the cold tap and splashing the water over his heated face, before retrieving his toothbrush and scrubbing at his teeth and tongue. Removing the remains of sick and of Sherlock.

When he finally exited the bathroom it was to find Mary watching him with concern. She rushed over to him, pressing her hand to his warm face.

"Are you alright?" she asked, guiding him to the bed.

"I'm fine. Just need to rest." he allowed her to push him down on the bed, her hand threading through his short greying hair.

"Then you should sleep." she smiled warmly, fanning the flames of guilt inside John.

"I can't go to sleep. It's still early and I'm taking you to that restaurant tonight."

"You can take me tomorrow night, John. Right now I want you do get better." she pressed a kiss to his lips and pushed him to lay down. "Now just sleep."

John gave into his wife's demands and closed his eyes, but he didn't get much rest.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

_It was all grey. Something was clogging his vision as he looked up at the shadowed figure. A voice resounded all around him. Strong yet distorted. It was cold. Ice cold. "This phone call, it's my note. - Tell anyone who'll listen to you. - I'm a fake. - I created Moriarty. - Keep your eyes fixed on me. - Don't move. - I'm a fake. - Goodbye, John." Then there was falling and the grey faded to red._

" _Shhhhheeeeerrrrrllooock!"_

"John. - John. - Wake up."

John shot up in the bed, his heart racing, her head spinning and sweat pooling in his eyes, mixing with tears. Mary was looking at him in the dark, her body close to his.

"John, are you…?"

He dropped back against the pillow, turning his back to his wife. He bite his lips hard as his body shook and the sobs ripped their way from his throat.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock knew he was trying to ease his guilt. It was a rare emotion in him but when it did rear its head it was annoying in its intensity. The fact was that Richard did mean something to him and he knew that what had happened with John outside the café the previous afternoon had been mortally wrong. So when he'd returned home that night, he'd sprung the man with the surprised dinner at his favourite restaurant. Richard's joy had led to them falling into bed together, which had only added to Sherlock's guilt, as each time he touched or kissed the man he was committed to, he couldn't help but wish it was John.

He didn't know why he was suddenly engulfed with these desperate feelings for the doctor he hadn't seen in three years. He did know that they had always been there. Beneath the service, lurking, waiting for the opportunity to act. But they'd never gotten that opportunity in England. So when he'd seen John, stood in front of him like a dream come true, he'd given his feelings free reign and as a result was currently suffering from cheaters guilt.

The waiter stood over them, his pad in hand waiting to take their order. Richard was rolling off what he wanted while Sherlock sat staring blindly at the menu. He hated that he didn't want to be there. He hated the guilt that hadn't existed in him before John had changed his life. And he hated the way Richard smiled across at him, completely ignorant of the situation. Everything had been fine before fate shoved her nose into his life. At least everything with Richard had been. The man had shown Sherlock a part of himself he hadn't realised he'd been missing, and a part of him love Richard for that.

It was just that Sherlock wanted more. He wanted to be himself. To show off and know that the person he was with would scold him for it while at the same time being utterly impressed. He wanted to be able to remain silent for hours on end and not have to keep reminding himself to think how it was making his partner feel. He wanted to work and think. He wanted someone to make moral demands of him and make him a better person. He wanted someone to force him to stop smoking. - He wanted John.

Once again fate intervened. Sherlock turned his head idly and was hit in the chest when the restaurant door opened and in walked what he wanted. He swallowed hard as he stared at him. At his side was a pretty young redhead. Sherlock's mind went to work.  _Late twenties. Nurse. Mild asthmatic. Amateur Photographer. Completely besotted with John._

That deduction sparked something primal in Sherlock's gut and his gaze instantly turned to John in search of reciprocation of her feelings. But all he could see on looking was the dark rings around his eyes, the wary way he carried his body and the paleness of his skin.  _Nightmare_. Sherlock deduced.

"Peter?"

Sherlock's head snapped around to find Richard and the waiter staring expectantly at him. He straightened in his seat, handing his menu back to the young man. "I'll have the same."

Richard smirked, looking up at the uniformed youth. "Minus the lemon dressing."

Sherlock sighed as the man left them alone.

"Are you alright Peter?" Richard asked, unfolding his napkin.

"Fine." Sherlock murmured in reply, feeling his partner's eyes on him as he fought not to look across the restaurant.

"Are you sure? You've been off since you got home last night."

"Work." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

Richard gave a wary sigh. "I don't know why you just don't quit if you hate it so much."

"And do what?" Sherlock snapped despite himself. "Sorry."

Richard gave him a supportive smile and reached for his hand. His warm fingers entwining with Sherlock's.

The ex-detective stare down at their locked fingers and had to stop himself from shifting in his seat. It was a reaction he hadn't been able to shake. Not even after almost two year.

"Maybe you should take some time off." Richard said softly. "We could get away."

Sherlock nodded absently, his gaze shifting up to find a pair of blue eyes watching him.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

John wanted to groan. What was with his life. Was he trapped in a 1940's movie? He had the strongest urge to get up and leave. But he had promised Mary this meal, so he just had to grin and bear it. Besides Sherlock clearly didn't want anything to do with him, if he was willing to tell him such a ridiculous lie.

He smiled over at his wife feeling a cold sensation settle in his gut at the happy loving look in her eyes. They took the offered menus from the blonde waitress. John scanned the page, glad it was in English as he was more than certain his first year French wasn't going to cut it. He didn't know what drew his attention across the room any more than he could explain why the sight of Sherlock holding hand with some guy sent an angry spark through him. It wasn't like they'd been together, despite general opinion and what had happened the previous afternoon.

John found himself watching them. He couldn't see the other man's face but from what he could make out it was clear he was older than Sherlock, probably about the same age as John.  _So much for married to his work._ John thought spitefully, an irrational anger in his blood.

Sherlock turned suddenly and caught him staring. Across the room the pair just watched each other for a few endless moments before forcibly breaking the connection at the same instant and turning back to their respective partners.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

During their meals both men struggled not to look at each other and the air crackled between them. It surprised both that their partners couldn't sense something was off. They held causal pointless conversations and tried to pretend that they were utterly and solely aware of the other person. Which had always been their way. By the time they'd finished their main course, the pressure was too much for Sherlock. Throwing down his napkin, he looked across to Richard, forcing a smile. "I need the gent. You order desert."

After excusing himself, Sherlock headed for the back. He was stood at the urinal when the door opened behind him. He didn't turn to look. That would only draw attention from the two men that were also occupying the room. John came to stand next to, a single bowl between them. They didn't acknowledge each other. The man who'd been washing his hands left. Sherlock tucked himself away and strolled over to the sink, running the water. The second man finished up and left without caring about hygiene. At any other time Sherlock would have said something but right now his focus was solely on John.

The door slammed closed and John turned.

"So are you going to explain yourself Sher…."

Sherlock spun around, his wet hand clamping down over John's mouth as he forced him into the cubicle. Flattening them both against the wall, he kicked the door closed. His head dropping to the doctor's ear.

"Not here." Sherlock whispered roughly. "We can't talk here. Meet me at 2, tomorrow. 5 Rue Tholoze. I'll explain everything." he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his past.

Neither man moved or spoke, pressed against each other in a way they'd never imagine to be. They're hearts pounding against one another.

"Sherlock?" John breathed against the taller man's neck.

"Yes, John." he wished.

John closed his eyes, his head hulling back. "It's really you." he sighed with relief.

Sherlock pulled back finally. He didn't spare his friend a look as he pulled the door open. "Yes. - Tomorrow." then he vanished from sight.

John heard the bathroom door open and close. He slumped against the toilet wall, breathless and twice as confused as he'd been before. His heart pounding painfully in his chest. His whole body trembling, with a cold sweat coating the back of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn't know what he was doing. All morning he'd been torn between going to meet Sherlock and staying with Mary. Once he'd decided he needed answers, he'd come up with a ridiculous lie about visiting an Army Museum and insisted that she take the time to pamper herself. He didn't know what he would have done if she'd wanted to come with him.

Swallowing his racing heart, John stared up at the small out of the way hotel. Was this where Sherlock lived?  _Of course not. Sherlock would never live in a hotel._ Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold.

A mild aged woman sat at the small front desk. Slowly John approached. "Huh, hello I…" he froze. What name was he meant to give?

"John?" the woman asked in strongly accented English.

He nodded nervously, unsure how she'd know it was him.

"Peter said you would be arriving. Room 14." she handed over the key and pointed to the stares.

Each step was like agony. His mind rushing as he puzzled over what Sherlock would tell him. He'd spent the last two days trying to figure out what had happened and he knew only one thing, Sherlock had faked his death, but why? What could possibly have made the great detective give up everything? Was Moriarty behind it? He had to be.

Sliding the key into the lock, he braced himself for what was on the other side of the door. Pushing it open slowly he stepped inside to find the room empty. He looked around in confusion. Where was he? John strolled over to the window, staring down at the quiet street below.

His back stiffened when he heard the door open behind him. He didn't turn straight away. Nervous and fearful of what would happen. What if it wasn't really Sherlock? What if it was just some stranger who happened to look identical to his old friend? What if he was using that to take advantage of him? Or worse, lure him here to kill him? There were so many what if's and each one that flew around John's head were a thousand time more impossible as the last.

Finally he slowed turned to see Sherlock stood with his back pressed to the door watching him, his hands in his pockets. The room was deafeningly silent. The oxygen being sucked into a black hole. Unable to suffer any longer John spoke.

"So, what the fucking hell is going on Sherlock?"

The ex-detective couldn't move. Seeing John there in the sunlight hit him with a force he'd never felt before. He'd been puzzling over his reaction to John's appearance since the moment he'd set eyes on him and had come to a simple conclusion. 'You don't know what you're got until it's gone'. He hadn't know what John had meant to him until he was faced with never seeing him again. Until he'd fought not to go to him at the graveside. He hadn't known until he'd been show what it meant to be with someone, and not love them. He was John's lips move. Heard the words but didn't absorb them. He only had one thought in his mind. He had a second chance. - However brief it maybe.

Sherlock was across the room before either man knew it. His mouth crashing down on the doctors. He wasn't surprised this time when after a few seconds John kissed him back.

The kiss continued on for a few minutes. Tongues battling, forcing their way deeper into un-chartered territory. John was breathless when he pulled away, putting only a small amount of space between them. Looking up at the tall detective with glazed confused eyes. "W - What are we d-doing?" he breathed.

Sherlock looked deeply into those blue eyes. "Do you want to stop?" he whispered.

They stared at each other. Each man's brain saying they must end this now before it was too late. Before people got hurt.

"God, no." John suddenly said in a rush, stepping forward without a another moment's hesitation and pulling Sherlock into a fiery hungry kiss, that blazed between them.

Sherlock pushed John's coat from his shoulders, not caring when it hit the floor with a loud gang. He pulled at the man's shirt, freeing it from his jeans. John's hand following suit. Pushing the grey jacket, his trembling fingers working at the buttons on his waist coat with surprising ease, before tugging at the pale blue tie.

The clothes fell away without either man really acknowledging what was happening. Sherlock's fingers gliding over John's military toned muscle. Halting for a few second over the pale puckered scare that he'd seen a few times before. But back then he'd forced himself to ignore the mix of pale and tanned flash on show. Never allowing that side of him to surface.

That was what Richard had done for him. Opened him up, figuratively. Forced him to acknowledge the attraction he could feel. Sherlock clenched his eyes closed, forcing the other man out of his head, deepening the kiss with John as he did so. He couldn't allow the other man to shatter the spell that was currently engulfing them. All that mattered to him in that second was John. - Only John.

The room was growing hot. Both men's individual musk combined to fill it with a familiar scent. Something neither man had smelt in three years. The scent of each other, their life together. - of home. Utterly swallowed by that, the pair found it impossible to break the spell. Not even the feel of Sherlock tugging at his waist band could shock John out of whatever it was that held him captive. Instead he mirrored each of Sherlock's movements, until both men where stood naked together in the musky fantasy.

"Sherlock." John growled as he felt the taller man's erection press against his stomach.

Sherlock's hips thrust forward at the sound, bringing forth another low erotic moan. His hands slid down John's flanks, nails grazing skin until he reached the man's hips. Pulling him flush against him, needing to feel his answer. He kissed down John's neck knowing unconsciously not to leave any marks despite the desire to do so. To show the world that John Watson belong to him, and him alone.

With his mouth on blazing skin and his eyes closed so as to savor and catalogue the taste, Sherlock maneuvered them to the bed. They lowered down simultaneously. John's hand's tangled in the ex-detectives soft strawberry blond hair, wishing back the dark curled he'd never allowed himself to touch. On his back, John moaned as Sherlock crawled down his body, pressing kisses, licking a moist warm path from collar to navel and beyond. The other man's hand gripping at his hip and thigh in succession, causing John's pelvis to lift with desire. His legs parting to encase Sherlock's slim frame, the man's pale flesh an inferno against the inside of his thigh's.

John's mind had stopped working almost the instant he'd decided to return Sherlock's attentions and he thanked God for that. Deep primal moan's echoed around the room when Sherlock engulfed him. His fingers tightening in the man's much shorter hair on instinct. Tugging it gently, his hips moving up into the heat of Sherlock's mouth. His mind exploded into nothingness. The only thing surviving was the sensation and the knowledge that it was Sherlock.

His head rolled back onto the bed and his eyes falling closed. Behind their lids, lightening flew around as he came closer to his climax. He whimpered when Sherlock released him, pulling way. John's eyes shot open and he looked down at the flushed delicate feature, the glistening swollen lips. "What are you doing?" he snapped, tugging on the blond hair.

Sherlock didn't reply, pulling himself out of John's hold, he vanished into the bathroom, leaving an increasingly frustrated and furious Watson glaring after him. He returned quickly, a small bottle in his hand. Crawling onto the bed he straddled John's hips. He had to do this now before sense and reason returned to them both. And with it guilt. If this was the only change he had, he'd take it.

John frowned and gasped as Sherlock moved above him, his hand coating his throbbing member in whatever the contents of the bottle was. Whatever it was, it was cold against his blazing erection. He opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock moved above him. Knowing that the man needed preparation to avoid the pain, but Sherlock silenced him with an open mouthed dirty kiss that John knew he'd never be able to wipe form his memory. He swallowed the ex-detectives cry of pain as he lowered himself onto John. Making the doctor cringe with self-loathing and sympathy. His large hand gripping onto Sherlock's hips, holding him in place till they both adjusted to the new and unfamiliar connection they shared.

After a few moments Sherlock began to move. Riding John as he'd never allowed himself to dream of doing. The pace fast and brutal yet gentle and comforting. Giving and taking. Utterly contrary, just like their friendship. Sherlock pulled back and John went with him, sitting awkwardly on the bed as the taller man continued to rise and fall. His internal muscles tightening deliciously around John. The doctor's hands fanning across Sherlock's back, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath his palms. Neither acknowledging the bar of cold metal encasing a single finger.

Sherlock's head fell forward into the crook of John's shoulder as he quickened his pace. The other man's rough strong hand slipping between their bodies to help him achieve his own climax.

It was a romantic ideal for them to come at the same time. Stuff of trashy romance novels. But they reached nirvana so close together that to their addled, lust fuelled brains, it felt as if they had.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

 

Reality crashed down almost the instant the lust fled their bodies. John threw his legs over the side of the bed, never looking at the man behind him. He dropped his head in his hands with a groan. "What have we just done?"

"I would think as a doctor you'd know." Sherlock replied.

"This isn't a laughing matter Sherlock." the older man snapped, still not looking. "I'm married for Christ sake. - And straight!"

"I believe our previous activity would contradict that statement John."

"Jesus Sherlock, this isn't funny."

"I am not laughing."

"No, you're being flippant."

Sherlock turned to look at the naked back of his friend, his brows drawn together. "I am being myself."  _finally_. He added silently.

John didn't reply to that statement, he just sat with his head lowered. All his mind could process was that he'd cheated on his wife. - With his dead best friend. Now wasn't that a life time of therapy in the offing. "Why?" he whispered, turning slightly. "Why aren't you dead, Sherlock?"

The ex-detective shifted ip against the pillows, unsure whether to feel insulted by John's tone. "Moriarty didn't give me a choice." Sherlock started, before going on to explain what had happened with Moriarty on the roof of St. Barts, the threats on John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, the plan to fake his death if absolutely necessary, and finally how he'd pulled it off, with help from Mycroft.

"Jesus Sherlock. You should have just let him kill me." John snapped angrily.

"John!"

"I'm serious. You have no fucking idea what that did to me. Killing me would have hurt less." John's vision blurred as he got to his feet and headed straight for the bathroom.

Alone in the room, Sherlock began to dress. He could hear the water running and the sound carried an eeriness with it. This hadn't been what he'd expected to happen when he'd arranged to meet John. He'd planned to simply tell him what had happened, then send him on his way. He had no idea what had possessed him to make the move he had. Especially know his friends determined opinion of his own sexuality. Well, that wasn't quite true. He'd acted out of pure selfishness. Wanting desperately to have something to cling onto when John left. He didn't want that regret hanging onto him forever. Only now, he held another, because he'd hurt his friend in loving him.

Finally the bathroom door opened to reveal John wrapped in one of the hotel bathrobes. Sherlock could tell from the small patch of exposed skin that he'd practically scrubbed his skin raw. And the rancid stench of vomit clung to the bathroom air. Both things causing Sherlock's stomach to tighten painfully. Clearly John hated what had happened and himself for allowing it.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, his back to John as the man began to dress behind him. He'd laid John's cloths on the bed ready for him. The bed dipped as the doctor sat.

"So who is he?" John suddenly asked.

"Who?"

"The man from the restaurant?" John knew the answer, he just wanted it confirmed.

"You tell me."

John took a deep breath. "Boyfriend?"

"Not exactly…."

John felt something ease in his gut.

"…an accurate description considering he'd neither as boy nor a friend. But socially correct."

John clenched his jaw, the tightness in his stomach returning. "And your living together?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see John sat staring at his feet. "What makes you say so?"

John looked at him. "This place. If you weren't living with him, we would have met at your place, but they fact that you chose this out of the way hotel means you don't want him knowing about me."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellently deduced. - Though I chose this place because I couldn't risk Moriarty's people seeing us together and the landlady here is completely trust worthy. - She's one of Mycroft's people."

"Oh."

"But other than that you were correct. I would rather not have to explain to Richard who you are. It would lead to questions I can not possibly answer."

"Richard?" John repeated with a frown.

"I am perfectly ware of the irony."

John fell silent for a while, before curiosity got the better of him. "How long? You and….Richard?"

"Almost two years." Sherlock replied in a murmur, not really wishing to discuss his new life.

John's head snapped around to meet his friends blue gaze.

"It was not my idea." Sherlock heard himself defend. "Mycroft insisted I behave like a normal person, completely opposite to myself. So I work in a small cramped office answering phones, passing paper back and forth aimlessly, then I go home, eat, sleep and repeat the day all over again. It is incredibly dull and tedious."

"I'm sure  _Richard_ would be happy to hear you speaking so lovingly of your life together." John mumbled harshly. "And that you're using him."

Sherlock sent his friend a scornful look. "I am not using him. Richard and I are…." he swallowed unsure how to describe what they were. "Richard means….something to me."

"Something?" John quizzed with a raised brown.

Sherlock turned his attention to the window, not wanting to discuss his 'boyfriend'. "Congratulations by the way."

"For what?" John frowned.

"Your one year anniversary. I'm sure your bother exceedingly happy."

"Oh, so I hit a nerve and now you're firing back with both guns. Huh, well then, thank you. We are - At least we were until this….."he threw his hands up before dropping them and staring down at the slim gold ring that meant he belonged to another. "What now Sherlock?" he sighed warily.

"You go back to your wife, and England. You get on with your life and I….continue with mine."

John's heart clenched painfully behind his ribs.

"But you cannot tell anyone about me John. You must carry on as if you never saw me. Not only for your safety, but for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I'm sure your high morals will not let you keep this….transgression….from your wife…"

John's head snapped up. "I'm not telling my wife!"

Sherlock shrugged disbelievingly. John had always believed in doing the right thing. "Tell, her or don't. Which ever you do, I expect you to keep my identity a secret. No one can know who I am John. Not even the woman….you…love."

John opened his mouth to say something, though he didn't know what. It closed again swiftly and he sat silently staring at the wall.

Finally Sherlock moved, getting to his feet. He hovered over John for a few minutes. His hands clenched tight behind his back, fighting the urge to touch  _his_ doctor. "It was…nice to see you again, John." he said in an almost whisper. "I hope you have a long and happy life. - It is all I have ever wanted for you, my friend."

John looked up at the taller man, tears brimming in his eyes. His heart pounding so hard it shattered. He held out his hand to Sherlock, who took it in a lingering firm handshake. When the ex-detective broke the contact John's palm suddenly felt ice cold.

Sherlock strolled confidently to the door, pulling it open he paused. He wanted to look back, but didn't, instead he spoke over his shoulder. "Oh, John. The Hammersmith Hangman. - Inform Lestrade, it's his sergeant."

"What?"

"Obvious really." With that the detective left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He took two whole steps before his legs went beneath him and he was forced to brace himself on the wall, gasping in air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you're going to hate me, and probably the boys for this whole cheating thing. But you know what, I don't care. As much as I don't believe cheating is acceptable, I can't help but for give these two (and not just because I'm writing it.) after all, they're soul-mates. And you just should stand between soul-mates.
> 
> Besides, Sherlock saw him first.


	5. Chapter 5

The guilt haunted John, casting a shadow over the rest of his holiday. Every time Mary kissed or touched him. - Or was just her usual loving self, it clawed at his conscience. He knew the easiest way to get rid of the guilt was to tell her, but that would be selfish. He wouldn't be telling her because she needed to know, but because it would make him feel better. It was one foolish mistake that would never happen again. - And it hadn't meant anything.

In the darkness of their room, John's mind was alert and determined to be honest with itself. It had meant something. Of course it had. It would never have happened otherwise. The thing was he just didn't know what. He'd been trying to figure it out for days and was no close to an answer. He was completely adamant he was straight. He'd spent days looking at men and hadn't felt so much as a flicker of desire or attraction. Which he was glad about; with the way his mind was at present he didn't think he could handle that revelation on top of everything.

So if he wasn't suddenly gay, what was he? Bisexual? Bi-curious? Again he didn't think so. Both labels would indicate the same as being gay, that he had a fancy for blokes. Only he'd already established that wasn't true.

His mind rebelled at that point. For whatever reason refusing to look any deeper into why he'd slept with Sherlock. Turning his head he looked at the beautiful sleeping face of his wife. He took in her features as if he'd never really seen them before and couldn't help but compare then to a certain detectives. While Mary was beautiful she wasn't delicate. She didn't carry sharp cheekbones or full lips. Her eyes, when they were open, where not the most unique shade of bluish-green he'd ever seen.

A fresh wave of shame washed over him as he realised what he was doing. He turned away with his back to his wife. John stared into the empty space beside the bed. He hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock since their afternoon together. At first John had been glad of it still angry at them both over what had happened. But now as there final day hovered on the horizon, he found he waited to see him. Just once more.

He'd tried to imagine what life was going to be like back in England. Knowing Sherlock was alive but pretending he didn't. He knew that they were being watched and that where in a constant state of danger. Strangely the later didn't worry him all that much. In fact it sent a rush of familiar excitement through him. A feeling of home he had had since Sherlock's supposed death. He'd already made up his mind that he was going to have to see Mrs Hudson and Lestrade more often. Though he'd have to be subtitle. He couldn't just suddenly start hanging around. He hadn't seen either of them in months, having slowly cut himself off from his old life in order to survive the loss. It was strange how knowing Sherlock was alive had him wanting to claw back that life.

And then there was what Sherlock had told him about Lestrade's sergeant being the Hangman. The question was how to let the inspector know without showing his hand. He guessed it would just have to come down to an anonymous tip. Through he doubted how serious the Yard would take someone suddenly calling to say "Your sergeants the killer." The only person in the world that could make such an announcement and be believed was dead. - Or at least he was to the world.

Shaking his head John decided to figure that catch out at a future date, right now he needed to sleep. Turning onto his back, John closed his eyes. Steadied his breathing and waiting for sleep to come. Sadly the only thing that arrived was the image of Sherlock, looking down at him, flushed faced, wide eyed, sweat slick blonde hair sticking to his forehead. And he hated that in the dark silence, he didn't forced the memories away.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

"I'm so excited." Mary giggled as she sat next to John in the back of a French taxi. "You were so right to leave the tower to our last day. - It's going to be romantic."

John smiled over at his wife's blissful expression, her hand wrapped in his. He was happy, she was happy. But it didn't sooth the sting of his betrayal that was now his constant companion.

Trying to ease his conscience, John lent over and pressed a warm kiss to her slim lips. His eyes closed tight as he concentrated on his wife alone. When he pulled back and opened his eyes something tightened in his gut at the sight of the red head.

The taxi pulled up a little way from the large steel structure. John watched Mary's face light-up at the sight of the so-called most romantic place on the planet. Gripping his hand tightly she dragged him towards it. John looked up and wished he'd never come. He wasn't scared of heights, but there was something about the huge tower that left a hole in his stomach.

"Come on!" Mary grinned like a Cheshire cat as she tugged him towards the lifts that would take them to the top.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled under his nose, a plume of smoke from the cigarette he'd only just extinguished hanging over his head. He was staring out at the hubbub of tourists as they swarmed around the famous attraction like flies around manure. As they moved Sherlock's eyes followed, taking note of every small detail.

"Banker from New York. Married ten years, that's his mistress. He got a bad case of athlete's foot and had been embezzling from his employers to pay for this trip." Sherlock stated, pointing to the middle aged man with the leggy brunette.

A quiet rough chuckled resound next to him as Richard tried not to choke on his coffee. They came here every few weeks, or sometimes they went to the Louvre or Notre Dame, anywhere there were new people for Sherlock to deduce. It was his way of keeping his mind active and in tune. Hew could never know if all his deductions were right but then that didn't much matter. It was the skill itself he couldn't afford to lose. Because someday he'd be going back to his life. He had to believe that if he was ever to live this one.

Of course Richard thought it was a game. Something for them to do together on weekends. They'd sit in the café and watch the world walk by and with no confirmation of what Sherlock said, his partner couldn't be impressed. - And if Sherlock was honest, he wouldn't have cared if he had been.

Richard took his go, making ridiculous deductions that Sherlock knew were a far fetched at they could get. But instead of correcting him. - Which is what Sherlock Holmes would do? -  _'Peter'_ forced a laugh, smiled warmly and nodded before taking his turn again.

They carried on like this for another twenty minutes, Sherlock making accurate deductions, Richard making ridiculous ones. The sun beating down on them, the coffee and cake coming and going. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face into the warmth of the sun as Richard rambled on about some young woman he thought was running away from home to meet her secret lover, but who was actually an art student from Germany, from a broken home, anorexia and a stone in her left shoe. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. He heard Richard give a light huff and knew it was because he was smoking again. Richard hated the habit but he never asked him to stop. -  _John wouldn't ask either._  Sherlock's mind noted.  _He'd just hide all my cigarettes._

Shaking his head, Sherlock stabbed out the cigarette he'd only just lit and straightened in his seat. He had to push John from his mind. He'd had his brief encounter with him. Faced a regret he hadn't even known he held until he'd seen him and now it was time to let go. John would be back in England with his wife and probably a brood of children, and he would live his dull tedious normal life in Paris. They'd never see each other again. Even in the web was destroyed, and it was safe to return to London, he wouldn't drag John away from his family and put his life in danger again. - John deserved that much.

He turned his head to look at Richard, who was looking at him. Was this man his future? Could he return to London with him when the time came? Sherlock looked at the dark haired man and sighed inwardly. He didn't think he could have that life with Richard. But then maybe he wasn't meant to. Maybe he had to find a new way to live after all this time. Maybe he should stay in Paris with Richard. It wasn't like he needed to be in London to work. There was crime everywhere.

"You alright?" Richard asked gently, reaching for his hand.

Sherlock didn't speak, couldn't trust his voice, so he simply nodded. Richard continued to hold his hand for a moment, before leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his lips and turning back to the people. Sherlock hated every second. Not because he hated the man he was with, but because he hated himself. John was right, he was using Richard. And it wasn't fair.

"It's your turn." He smiled cheerfully. "There. Them."

Sherlock took a moment to stare at the man's profiles before following the line of his finger towards a couple across the street.

His heart jumped into his throat, pounding vigorously in the small confined space and stealing his breath. His hand began to tremble and he had to press them together beneath his nose to stop them. Though it didn't work, they still shook and so did his whole body.

Sherlock's mind raced if he didn't say something Richard would know something was wrong. Taking a breath to calm himself he started, not so much deducing but tell what he already knew.

"Ex military doctor. Wounded in action. Afghanistan. Alcoholic sister. Parents both dead. Married a year after a long string of failed relationships. Watched his best friend jumped of the top a hospital, still suffering from the nightmare. Confused about his feeling. Loyal. Strong. Caring. Easily impressed. Prefers white bread to brown. Tea to coffee and a secret addition of peanut Kit-Kat's." Sherlock smirked at the memory of John trying to hide the chocolate wrapper in his back jean pocked at a crime scene.

Richard stared at him silently, eyes wide. Sherlock swallowed knowing he'd said too much and fearing he'd just shown his hand. Would Richard figure out his true identity? Part of him wanted the man too.

Richard tore his gaze away from Sherlock to glance at the man in the distance then back to his partner. "Well, this is a turn up for the books."

Sherlock stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Richard leant forward a little, his lips pulled into a smile. "You. Actually checking out someone else. I never thought I'd see the day."

"I - I was…"

"Its fine, Peter…" Richard's hand ran up his leg. "…It's normal to look you know."

Sherlock relaxed slightly.

"Just as long as you don't touch." Richard murmured, chuckling softly.

A sharp pain shot through his gut at his partner's words. Sherlock shifted in his seat, that unfamiliar and very unpleasant feeling of guilt once more taking hold of him.


	6. Chapter 6

Life back in England felt different. Knowing Sherlock was alive somehow made life worth living again. John wasn't walking around with a grey cloud over his head. He wasn't getting the pang in his chest every time he saw something that reminded him of his best friend.

But as much as he was feeling better about his life, he was also having the hardest time imaginable getting on with it. He's hoped that returning home with Mary would make everything better. That what had happened in Paris would be easily forgotten; erased from his memory. He'd kept telling himself  _'what happens in Paris, stays in Paris.'_ but it wasn't working out like that. After almost two weeks back in London, John was finding it hard to sleep, harder to not think and being around Mary just felt…awkward.

And he hated himself for it ever second of the day. It Mary felt there was a shift in their relationship she wasn't saying anything. But then that was how she was. In order to distract himself from the problems of his…life. John set about solving the Hangman case. Well, ok, not so much solving it. Sherlock had already done that, all he had to do was find away of telling Lestrade, without well…telling him. This was easier said than done. It wasn't as if he could turn up at the Yard after three years and say,  _"Hey, Greg, want help on that Hangman case?"_ that would without a doubt make him suspicious. He considered going to see Mycroft, but after what Sherlock had said about his brothers 'plans' he doubted the man would be overjoyed to know that he knew the truth.

Sitting at his desk in the surgery, he worried the end of his pen. How the hell was he meant to do this? He glanced at the phone, once again considering calling Crime-Stoppers and then, once against decided it wouldn't help.

"Hey, John?"

The doctor looked up to see his colleague, Gordon Reese at the door, a charming smile on his face. Gordon was well known around the surgery and beyond for his womanizing ways. He was stood with his shoulder pressed to the doorframe and the morning paper in his hand. To say John didn't much like the man, would be an understatement, but he'd learnt years ago that when working with someone you had to grin and bear it.

"Hey." he murmured, turning back to the mornings notes.

"So, you seen the papers?"

John hadn't, he wasn't sure why. Too distracted by his thought, he guess. "No, why?"

"Hangman's struck again…"

John's head shot up fast than the bullet that had gone through his shoulder.

"…can't believe they still haven't caught him…" Gordon continued. "…Shame Sherlock Holmes topped himself…." Gordon looked up from the pages of the tabloid. "Oh, sorry pal, forgot."

John knew it was a lie. Gordon had given him a hard time over the Sherlock situation almost from the moment he'd walked through the door.

"I have to say though mate, I would have thought spending all that time with him, you would have learnt something."

John clenched his fist on the table, and his jaw but didn't reply.

"Shame, really. You could have solved the damn case for them."

John took a breath, irritation battling with guilt in his chest. The feelings were actually becoming like a second skin all in all. His constant companion since arriving back from Paris.

John didn't reply to his colleagues jibe, there really wasn't anything he could say. He had the information, he knew who the murder was, but he couldn't say anything. If it was only his own life he was risking, John wouldn't even hesitate…but it was Greg and Mrs Hudson. Not to mention what Moriarty's people would do if they found out Sherlock was still alive. That thought sent a chill down his spine.

"So, how was Paris?"

Gordon had been off with one of his bimbo's when they'd returned and hadn't made the effort to come and see John on his return, thankfully. The question shook John for a second, the memories crashing into him. He tried to force them back, but Sherlock always had been able to get into John head. "Fine." he murmured finally, glancing down at his desk.

"All romantic. Never really got the appeal of the whole Paris thing, but women like it, so." Gordon shrugged.

"Yeah." John nodded, wishing the man would just fuck off. Thankfully he seemed to read his mind.

"Well, better get back to the grind." Sighed, Gordon pushed himself off the door and strolled away, whistling idly.

John stared at the pad in front of him, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. Sherlock, the Hangman. Mary. Guilt. Frustration. Live in John Watson's head had never been peaceful, but not it felt like world war three.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

 

"A conference?" Mary frowned up from her book.

"It's only a couple of day." John said calmly. He'd never liked lying, and he'd never in a million expected he'd be doing it to his wife. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Do you really have to go?" she pouted.

"It's a good opportunity."

Mary sighed but nodded understandingly. "When you leaving?"

"In the morning." John smiled softly.

Mary got to her feet, strolling towards him with a look in her eyes John knew all too well. They'd had sex since Paris, hell they'd had sex in Paris and it was good, natural but John couldn't fight the feeling that something important was missing. Something he hadn't known wasn't there until it had been.

That night he made love to his wife. He knew it was partly to ease his guilt for lying, as well as for everything he wasn't meant to be feeling. When morning came he left with a heavy heart, but as heavy as it was, he couldn't deny the thrill of excitement at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

 

Sherlock groaned at his phone went off for the tenth time in twenty minutes. He was so bored he'd resort to throwing darts at the plaster board wall. It wasn't as satisfying as shooting a weapon but it helped ease his tension a little. Things hadn't been going well for him since John's appearance in his life. His uncharacteristic guilt was driving him insane on a daily basis. Richard was still insisting that they go away for a while.

When he heard Madam Henry's voice down the line, his heart skipped a little. The woman never contacted unless Mycroft wanted something. Hope sprung up in his heart. Had he finally gotten hold of Moritary's men. His heart took a double take though the second the woman told him it wasn't Mycroft that wanted him.

Taking a breath, Sherlock hung up and stared at the wall. John was in Paris. Again. Usually he would have figured out instantly what had brought his friend across the channel, the only possibility that would allow itself to work though Sherlock's mind, had his body sparking to life.

Sherlock leapt out of his chair, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He was out the door and on his way to the hotel without a moments thought. Walking into the small building, he looked at Madam Henry who smiled.

"Same room." she said in French.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, he burst into the room without knocking and froze at the sight of John. His heart hammering in his chest. John looked back at him and Sherlock knew his feeling were reciprocated.

Neither could say who moved first, who took that first step or that first breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

John didn't know why he was doing it. Again. All he knew was the moment Sherlock walked into the room he was hit by this uncontrollable force. It's was like gravity pulling him in and before he knew what he was doing, his fists were curled into the material of Sherlock's grey suit, dragging his mouth down.

Or maybe it was John's being pulled into the kiss by the firm confident hard pressed to the back of his neck. Warm and solid and utterly comforting the kiss was passionate and deep from the first instant.

John's body pressed against his friend, his pelvis grinding forward without his consent, not that he was complaining. The hand clinging to the suit jacket began fumbling with it, pushing it off the taller man's shoulders. The detective own hands following John's lead. The green and grey hit the floor with a thud.

There up rarely parted as the undressed each other. John's fingers desperately clutching at warm porcelain flesh. He took a deep shaky breath as Sherlock's mouth worked down his neck to work at the scared tissue of his shoulder. The fingers of John's left hand tangling into the blond strands, once again wishing for the black curls. This other hand holding onto Sherlock bicep as if it was a life raft. His heart crashing against his ribs as a moan was ripped from his throat. With a simple tug he pulled Sherlock back up to him, taking his full enchanting lips hungrily.

The pair tumbled onto the bed without even realizing it. Sherlock grinding up frantically, looking for friction and finding it when John pressed his hips down to meet the movement. Things got more heated as Sherlock slid his hand between them to work at both their erections with a single hand. John's head rolling back, his back arching and a deep primal moan rumbling through his chest. He once against dragged Sherlock into a desperate kiss.

Sherlock stopped before either of them could reach their peak. Rolling off of his friend, rushing to the bathroom. A mirror of their first time, only unlike that time, John knew what to expect and his body blazed with arousal. When Sherlock returned John all but snatched the bottle from him, which pulling him down onto the bed. He then reached over the end of the bed, grabbing the wallet out of his pocket. The condom he found in there wasn't put there because this had been planned, because it hadn't been. Subconsciously hoped for, maybe but not planned. It was just a condom he'd left in there and forgotten about. Though clearly not completely.

Retrieving it from behind the notes he dropped the leather, making sure not to so much as glance at the picture inside. Turning back to the other man, John ripped the wrapper with his teeth and rolled it on before turning his attention to Sherlock's bathroom supplies in his hand. John shifted between the detectives eagerly parted thighs.

As a doctor it wasn't the first time he'd had his finger up a guy's arse. But it was the first time he'd done so for pleasure. - And not just Sherlock's. He had to admit he was kind of getting off on it too. Mainly because of the noises the slightly younger man was making.

He put his medical training to good use as he work Sherlock open, making sure to hit his prostate in the process, just to hear the incredible sounds he made. He was ready quickly and John knew it was because his body was used to the invasion. The thought sent a spark of jealousy though him and before he even realised he was doing it, he was slamming into the great detective possessively, filling the room with primal moans and grunts. With every thrust his mind repeated the word. ' _Mine_.' and every groan from Sherlock felt like an acknowledgement of that fact.

The bed made a little complaint as John fought to get deeper inside Sherlock. As if he could crawl underneath his skin and they could share one body. He didn't know where the idea of them being two souls in one body had come from but it felt right.

He's spent so long denying that they were anything more than friends, that he'd convinced himself. He stubbornly refused to allow any kind of thought into his mind. And then he'd lost the man, lost his reason to live. - not exist. Live. Sherlock had always been that to him, from their very first case. Without him, life had been lonely, shallow. Just a seemingly endless stream of days with nothing to look forward to but more of the same. That's why he'd married Mary. He'd needed something to cling to and as the saying went 'if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.'.

That thought had him freezing mid thrust, staring down at the flushed and damp man beneath him, into those unique blue eyes that saw so much.

"John?" He panted. "Problem?"

John found himself at a crossroads. The realization that he'd been using Mary as much as Sherlock had been using….his….he hated himself for that. Mary was such a good beautiful person, that it wasn't fair on her to be here. But John could imagine leaving now. Getting dressed and walking away from Sherlock was an impossibility. The past two weeks without him had been unbearable and as much as it was the worst thing in the world for him to be doing. He leant forward and kissed his friend in a way he hadn't kissed anyone since Alison Harris in year nine.

When he began to move again it wasn't the harsh possessive movements he'd been using a few moments ago. They were like the kiss. Slow, deep and filled with meaning.

Sherlock's head rolled back against the bed, loud moans rolling out of his throat. He saw the possessiveness in John's eyes as he slammed into him and it felt a warmth through his chest. He'd been John since they day they'd met, though he'd never said anything to the slightly older man, knowing how he felt about his sexuality. He wondered what John would have said if he had told him at the time.

It hadn't been love or sexual back then. It was something far more pure. The love had come with time, though he hadn't acknowledged it….no, he hadn't recognized it. Now he knew what it had been that had caused him to hate every woman that came within ten feet of John Watson. Why he'd gone out of his way to make sure they didn't remain in his friends life for long. Why he'd felt a spark of triumph when John acted irrationally around The Woman. Why it had sent a pain though his chest when he heard John deny that there was anything between them at the power station. He hadn't known then that that had been heartbreak he was feeling.

Richard had shown him that, not that he felt those feeling for Richard, but that the man seemed to feel them for him. He felt another stab of guilt into his stomach, but John's movement eased it quickly. As much as he was grateful to the man he was living with, he didn't love him. He loved the man currently making his body trembling. Whose name was being ripped from his lips. Who was moaning his name in return.

When John froze mind thrust, he thought he'd deduced where his thoughts were and was going to complain, or worse stop and leave. Looking up into the man's face her tried to see what was going through the older man's mind.

"Problem?" he heard himself whisper.

John didn't repost verbal. He stared at him for a long intense second before bring his mouth down on Sherlock's and stealing his breath. The intensity of the kiss, slow and deep and filled with things Sherlock couldn't even begin to deduce was enough to send Sherlock tumbling over the edge. Coming with a low groan and a gasp of his friends name.

John pulled back to look down at him, an arrogant satisfied smirk on his face. He began to move, not fast and punishingly like he had when they'd started, but slow and filled with the same passion as the kiss they'd just shared. Each thrust accompanied with a quiet moan of his name. His heart skipped with each movement. His long elegant fingers curving around the powerful muscle of John's bicep, his nails biting into the flesh as he felt another wave of ecstasy flooding his body.

Finally John's body grew tense, his hard member pressed deep inside him as he cried the detectives name into the silent room. Then he collapsed forward, his body crushing down on Sherlock, breathless.

"I - I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that." John panted into his ear, his tone filled with a smile.

"I think you mean 'tired of it'. You will easily become used to it, believe me." Sherlock smirked.

John pushed himself up on his arm, glaring down at him. "Shut up Sherlock." he snapped, rolling off them younger man. "How the hell am I meant to tell…"

Sherlock's stomach tighten in preparation for the name of the woman he didn't want to be reminded of.

"….Lestrade about his sergeant without telling him that your alive?" he finished, resting his head on his arm, staring up at the ceiling.

Sherlock burst into laughter as the tension in his gut eased.

"What's so fucking funny?" John snapped, turning to glare at him again.

Sherlock just shook his head and continued to laugh.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, I can't seem to do long chapters any more

John sat cross legged on the bed, a bed sheet his only item of covering. Sherlock sat with his leg outstretch on a few inches away, his back resting against the headboard. Between them lay strewn the newspaper clipping and article John had brought on the Hangman case. They needed to figure out a way to get Lestrade the information without actually showing their hand.

Sherlock sat staring at the wall opposite him, his arms folded over his naked chest, while John rambled on.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John snapped when the detective didn't replied to something he had said. "Sherlock."

"When do I ever listen to you John." he smirked, refusing to glance at the naked man beside him.

"Well, would you mind starting, cause I've got to go home with some kind of plan. I don't want another body on my conscious."

"It is not on your conscience John. It is on the murderers." he sighed warily, not really wanted to be reminded that John wasn't staying long.

"No, Sherlock. Psychopath's don't have consciences. But I do, and I could have stopped that murder."

Sherlock's head turned slowly as he fixed his friend with a hard stare. "And gotten Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and  _yourself_ killed in the process." he said harshly. "As we have already establish John, one life is not as important as three."

"It's not one life Sherlock, it's seven.  _Seven_."

"One." the detective insisted. "You could not have prevent the other six as you had no knowledge of the sergeant's involvement."

John meet Sherlock determined stare and knew the man was right. But he didn't have to like it. "Just tell me how we're going to let Lestrade know!" he snapped, dropping his gaze back to the papers.

"That was what I was figuring out when you so rudely interrupted me." Sherlock complained, turning his attention back to the wall.

The pair were silent for a few moments before John spoke again. "Couldn't Mycroft just…tell him."

"Mycroft does not lower himself to solve trivial common crimes." Sherlock announced in a rather snooty tone, that John thought was meant to sound like his brother.

"Murder is not trivial, or common!" John said angrily. Sometime he really hated Mycroft Holmes.

"For Mycroft it is." Sherlock murmured.

John huffed in frustration and gathered up his papers, he took another blind look though then and moan at the uselessness of them. Sighing he stacked them together and put them back in the folder before dropping it over the side of the bed. He turned his body to stretch out on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, his fingers tapping out an odd rhythm on his stomach.

Sherlock's hand reached out and stopped the movement, his eyes turning on the man beside him.

"I'm frustrated." John sighed.

Sherlock raised a brow at him questioningly.

John rolled his eyes. "Not like that. Jesus, you've turned into some kind of sex monster."

"I was merely inquiring John, Rich…." he felt silent as John's eyes narrowed. Turning his head back to the wall, he sighed. "I understand your frustration with the case John. I share it. If it was merely as case of risking my life, I would be on the first train back to London. But I have to put your safety first."

"Sherlock, I can look after myself." John said, lifting himself up on his elbows.

Sherlock shook his head. "You can't see a sniper coming John. As a soldier you know that." his voice was tight with concern. "And there's…."

"I know." John sighed, looking down at his naked form. "I get it, I don't like it, but I get it, which is why  _I_ haven't just marching into Scotland Yard and told Greg what I know."

The pair fell silent, together in their regretful thoughts. Things had been so simple once. Why had their life become impossibly complicated? Why couldn't Moriarty have just kept out of their lives? He hadn't really need to pull them into his little game. Sherlock couldn't have made that much of a dent in the man's criminal empire.

John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and couldn't help imagining what their life would have been if they hadn't been forced apart for three years. He wanted to believe that they would have found themselves in this exact potion, but he knew that wasn't true. If he hadn't have lost Sherlock, they would have continued on in that way they had. John ignoring what he was feeling, continuing to throw himself into one disastrous short-term relationship after another, while Sherlock thought of nothing but his cases. They would never have given into their unspoken desire for each other. - He would never have met Mary and in not meeting her, he would break her heart. Which he knew was going to happen.

"I think I have it." Sherlock suddenly said.

John frowned at him. "Well, don't give it to me."

Sherlock stared at him un-amused.

"Sorry. - What you go?"

"We merely have to let Lestrade think he solved it himself."

"Wonderful." John smiled. "And how are we meant to do that. You're always going on about how Greg and the Yard couldn't find their own arses with both hands."

"That is why we are going to lead him to the evidence that he needs."

"Again, how? I can't just start point him in this direction or that. What do I look like Shawn Spencer?"

Sherlock frowned. "Who?"

John rolled his eyes. "Forget it, crap telly."

Sherlock regarded him sternly before continuing on as if the doctor hadn't spoken. "We simply have to lead Lestrade to a single clue and make sure that that one lead to the next. Not even Lestrade can foul up a treasure hunt." Sherlock smirked.

John looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious about my cases John." Sherlock frowned.

"fine. So I'm supposed to lead…"

"No, of course not, you can't possibly be involved. - At least not….obviously…." he paused to think for a second. "Molly."

"Huh?"

"You will have to get Molly's help."

"Without letting her….she knows!" John snapped; his eyes wide. "You didn't say she knew Sherlock."

"Of course she knows. I thought that would have been obvious. I had to have someone you'd trust utterly."

John narrowed his gaze at the detective, his jaw clenching tight. Without another word, he threw off the sheet and marched stark naked around the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Sherlock groaned, knowing he'd put his foot in it. He had honestly thought John would have worked out Molly's involvement on his own. He wasn't a complete moron. He was smarter than he gave himself credit for, and sometimes smarter than Sherlock gave him credit for. With a wary sigh, Sherlock got off the bed, pulling the sheet free and wrapping it around himself as he made his way to the door. He barged in without knocking; knowing John hadn't bothered to lock it.

"John, stop being childish."

"Childish!" John all but yelled. "You told Molly. You trusted Molly Hopper over me!"

Sherlock released a long drawn out breath and shook his head. "I didn't trust Molly over you. I trusted Molly with you. - Your life. - I had no other choice John."

John looked at him, her eyes still filled with hurt. He knew what Sherlock was saying was logical, but he wasn't a damn Vulcan like the detective, he couldn't help feeling like a kicked puppy. Turning to stare at his reflection, he looked into his own eyes. There were lines around them now, deeper than they had once been, caused from weeks of sleepless nights and months of nightmares. His hair had an added layer of grey from watching his friend take that leap. He wasn't angry that Molly had helped him, or that she had kept his secret for three years. He was angry that it was necessary in the first place.

He jumped when Sherlock's hands came to rest on his shoulders, the man's unusual bluish green eyes meeting his in the mirror. John took the moment to look at the detective. There were line that hadn't been there before, a shadow hanging over those amazing eyes. The pain of regret John shared in their depths. Taking a deep breath John released it slowly, as he felt the soft press of lips to the side of his neck, his eyes closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn Spencer is the main character in the series Psych about a guy who solves crime though the science of observation but pretends to be a psychic.


	9. Chapter 9

John smiled down into his paper and the large picture showing Lestrade handcuffing his own sergeant. Their plan had worked; Molly had been an angel, like always. The article accompanying the piece wasn't very favorable when it came to how long it took the Inspector to solve the crime, and there was even another insistence that there would not have been as many victims if a certain consulting detective had still been alive. John had smiled sadly, his mind drifting back to his two days in Paris with Sherlock.

They'd spent the two days hidden away in their room, just recapturing their friendship. Sherlock informing John of the countless cases he'd solved but been unable to bring to the public attention. He told the doctor about his life since the fall, discreetly leaving out any mention of Richard. John had followed suit, telling his friend about his life, which had quickly lead to an argument as John relived the pain of Sherlock's loss, which had then led to make-up sex.

But the time John had had to prepare to leave the hotel; the pair had slipped into the old routine of silently doing their individual things. It felt comfortable and normal, everything they'd missed.

Walking back into his house was like being suffocated, especially after the revelation he'd had about his marriage, He'd looked at Mary, her blue eyes shining with love and he'd been crushed by the guilt. It had been that guilt that had him taking her to bed.

He'd never thought he'd be the kind of man to have an affair, and he wasn't foolish enough not to know that's exactly what it was. He'd thought that once he'd found the person he loved, he'd be utterly faithful. Except that was the point, he didn't love Mary, not the way he was meant to, not the way he'd thought he had. He knew the right thing to do would be to end their marriage before it became too painful and complicated.

He was contemplating the idea when Mary floated into the room beaming. She dropped down on John lap and pressed a kiss to his lips. He returned it out of obligation and hated himself for it. What kind of may kissed his wife out of obligation, what as this the nineteenth century. She pulled back at looked down at him, clearly oblivious to what that kiss had truly meant to her husband.

"I'm making us dinner tonight." she announced cheerfully.

"You make us dinner every night." John chuckled, forcing the lightness into his throat.

"I know, but I'm going to make something special."

John leant back to look at her, his stomach clenching tight. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

Mary pouted. "Can't I make a special meal for my husband?"

John swallowed, a horrific fear eating at his insides. "Of course."

Mary leapt of his lap, dropping another kiss to his lips. "I've got to go."

He watched her leave, silently praying that what he suspected wasn't true.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock had stopped smoking. John had insisted, but in doing so he was snapping at everyone, especially Richard. The man could do no right in his eyes at present. Sherlock had taken to sleeping on the couch or not sleeping at all. He knew Richard suspected something was wrong, he saw the way the man looked at him when he thought he wasn't watching but he didn't care. The idea of being intermit with anyone after John made his stomach churn painfully.

Since John had returned to England and his wife, Sherlock had felt like a ship adrift, his mind desperate for something to distract him, something to challenge him. Richard did not give him that. So Sherlock found himself hunting through papers for cases. He hung around in the shadows of crimes scenes, shaking his head at the foolishness of the French police, as he once had with the Yard. But as much as he wanted to march over and tell them how wrong they were, he kept silent, kept in the darkness, for John's sake.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

 

Sherlock returned home to find Richard in their room, packing. His chest tightened at the sight. Richard acknowledged his entrance with a look before turning back to the wardrobe. Sherlock strolled slowly over to the chair in the corner and dropped down into it.

Neither of them said a word for a long time, Sherlock simply watching him move around the room. There was a throbbing ache in the detective's chest, guilt. When his wardrobe was finally half empty and some drawers sat open, Sherlock looked up to find Richard standing there, staring down at him. Sherlock remained silent, unsure what was considered proper for the situation.

"If there's someone else, you could just tell me?" Richard said finally.

Sherlock looked up at him with schooled features. "There isn't." he lied coolly. The look in Richard's eyes told Sherlock he didn't believe him, but he wasn't going to confirm the man's suspicions, because then he'd want to know who it was.

There was another strained silence as the men waited for the other to talk, but finally Richard picked up the suitcase and headed for the door. Sherlock didn't move or speak, he felt tears in his eyes but they didn't fall as he heard the door close. Taking a deep breath he remained where he was for a few minutes. When he finally got to his feet, he closed the drawers and the wardrobe, shrugged out of his coat that he was still wearing and walked silently into the kitchen where he prepared himself a cup of tea before setting down on his couch with a book, the flat strangely feeling much more comfortable than it ever had before.

He was halfway through his book when his phone went off. It was a new phone and only one person had the number. His heart skipped with excitement as he looked down at the screen to see a simple J staring back at him. Taking a breath he opened the message, hoping it was John saying he was returning to Paris soon.

**MSG: J**

**SHE'S PREGNANT.**

Sherlock sat staring at the message, his heart pounding in his chest, his hands shaking. She was pregnant. John was going to be a father. The bottom fell out of his stomach, and his world crashed around him.

**MSG: J**

**WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?**

Sherlock had no answers. He knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell John to leave her, to come to Paris. But he also knew that John wouldn't abandon his pregnant wife, no matter what they had. He was too good a person to do something so heartless. Taking a breath he let his fingers move over the keys.

**MSG: PETER**

**BE HAPPY.**

Send.

Sherlock felt his heart shattered painfully, his hands shaking worse and worse by the moment. The tears that had pooled in his eyes when Richard left were nothing to the ones that were rolling down his cheeks. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Without thinking he sent a second message before turning off the phone and dropping it onto the table, then crumbled in on himself.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

John sat on the toilet in his flat, his phone pressed between his shaking hands. His eyes widening at the message appeared, his stomach imploded ripping him in half. He hadn't expected that response. He was confused and he'd wanted Sherlock to tell him what to do. He'd wanted the detective to leave. His heart skipped with hope when another message came though.

**MSG: PETER**

**GOODBYE.**

John almost chocked on the sob that ripped at his throat, the phone toppling out of his hand to land on the tiles with a crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Don't kill me. Please... I just...blame my evil alter-ego Destiny for all the bad stuff.
> 
> and just as a note, I didn't screw up, Sherlock is on John's phone as Peter because it's a common enough name that no body would know it was Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would like to say sorry for depressing you all last chapter, evil alter ego on the loose. Anyway, have some more. *wicked laugh*

Once upon a time, he'd thought he would have been easier living his life knowing Sherlock was alive. He'd told himself that a hundred times over the years. When he'd thought he was buried six foot under. He'd told himself that even if they never saw each other again, knowing Sherlock was in the world would be enough.

Well, he'd been wrong. So very wrong. It was worst, knowing Sherlock was out there, living his life with his new partner, knowing he couldn't see him. He'd tried calling him. Every day for almost a month he tried calling, but the man never answered. He didn't even allow it to go to voicemail. He'd completely cut him off, and as the days and months past, John grew more angry.

At the beginning, after the pain had eased, he'd realised it was for the best. Sherlock knew him well enough to know that he could never carry on their….affair, knowing Mary was pregnant. That he'd put his duty to his wife and child before any selfish need to be with Sherlock, but he needed his friend, and Sherlock had always been that first.

He knew Mary knew something was wrong. He wasn't as happy as he should be about his up-coming fatherhood, and he'd find himself snapping at her without meaning too. His marriage was in more trouble now than it had been when he was sneaking away to see Sherlock. What made everything worst was the gnawing idea that Sherlock had choice Richard. At night he was haunted by images of Sherlock curled up in bed with the faceless made he knew he lived with. They would always drive him out of the warmth and into the bathroom, to try and call the detective again. When there would be no answer, which he always expected. John would make himself comfortable on the couch and wake the next working to the heartbroken look in Mary's eyes.

After two months of this, he tried to focus of her, to ignore everything that was in him that screamed Sherlock's name. The man clearly didn't want him anymore and Mary clearly did. What John wanted didn't matter in the slightest. Partly because John didn't even know what he wanted. Once it would have been easy. He would have said it without a single doubt in his head. A beautiful loving wife and house of screaming kids. He would have yelled till his was blue in the face at the hint of him and Sherlock. How times have changed. Now the idea of the wife and kids seemed….surreal, odd and totally wrong for him.

It becomes too much for him by Mary's four months. The false smile, the trying to feeling things he isn't feeling and ignore things he is. That's when he decided enough is enough, he needs to see Sherlock. It's like a kind of drug he can't get out of his system, no matter how much cold turkey and rehab he goes though. He lies to Mary again, and heads for the Eurostar.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock isn't handling the separation any better, in fact he couldn't be handling it any worse. He was smoking again, only not just cigarettes. He never goes to work, he never leaves his flat. He ignored phone calls and visitors, and barely eats. He would have starved himself completely except for the small whispering voice that kept filling him with hope that it was all going to work out. That one day Mycroft would tell him it was over and he could go home. - To John.

But even if Mycroft arrived there and then, he couldn't go back to John. John had a new life, a new family and Sherlock wasn't a part of that, he couldn't be a part of that. And that killed him. Slowly, day after day.

He wished he'd never meet John Watson on those bad days. His life had been so much for simple before the doctor stormed into it. Making him feel things he had needed to before. Making him care about the world. If it wasn't for John Watson, he would be rotting away in an apartment in Paris.

He sat there, smoking a none-cigarette, his back pressed to the couch, his head a buzz. Only it's not his head he realizes after a long while, it's the door.

"Go away!" he yells though the thick wood.

The buzzing continues. Usually Sherlock would ignore it, but he wasn't gone enough to ignore it and it was infuriating. And something in his gut told him to open the door. Climbing to his feet with a groan of complaint, he stubbles to the door. "This had better be a case of life or death, or I'm shooting you!" he yells, throwing the door open and freezing at the sight on the other side.

"W-what are you doing here?"

"Get your coat." the order was given roughly.

"Answer my question?" Sherlock demands swaying on his legs.

The man takes a step into the flat, glancing around. "You tell me Sherlock?"

The detective stared at the intruder, unable to focus properly. "Ricki, what did you just say?"

Ricki turned to look at the detective, his nose turned up to the stale air. "You're stoned." he stated.

"On my way to being." Sherlock said calmly. "Answer my question!" he said with more anger.

Ricki met the man's red rimmed gaze. "I said Sherlock. That's your name right. Sherlock Holmes, brother of Mycroft, also known as Mr. Smiley, for obvious reasons."

Sherlock felt something akin to fear pass threw him before brushing it aside. It was a side effect of the drug. "So you've always know who I was?"

Ricki scoffed. "Of course. Now get your coat." his voice softening a little.

"Why?"

Ricki's face paled a little. "Because I've been ordered to deliver you to London."

Hope sprung into Sherlock chest. "Mycroft. It's over?"

Ricki shook his head. "No. But…."

The hope vanished, shattered in two by the heavy weight of realization, Sherlock stumbled backwards, banging unceremoniously into the wall, his eyes already red, began to water. He couldn't breathe, he felt like he was drowning. He gasped and panted and clawed for fresh air. Swallowing hard he stared at Ricki. "J-John?"

Ricki looked at his feet. "Car accident. Taxi got side swiped on his way to Victoria. He was on his way here."

Sherlock stomach dropped, his whole body shook. He gasped for breathe, his knees went beneath him. He imagined this was how John had felt watching him leap from the top of St. Barts. He crumpled to the floor, his vision blurring.

"Oh shit. Fuck. Sherlock." Ricki rushed to him, dropping into a crouch at his side. Slapping at the unconscious man's face. "Shit."

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock came round on his couch, a familiar voice echoing in the room.

"I'll get him there as soon as I can. - He'll be fine as soon as he comes around. - And down."

Sherlock turned his head to see Ricki standing with his back to him, a mobile pressed to his ear.

"Are you sure this is the right thing. It's not exactly safe. - Okay. We'll be on the first train back, as soon as he's awake."

It hit Sherlock then, like a runaway train. The memory of what Ricki had come here to tell him. John. Car Accident. Oh God. John was dead. His John. He'd never see him again. His head shattered and he let out a pained moan, fighting to breathe again.

"Got to go he's awake…and having another panic attack. See you in a few hours." Ricki hung up and rushed to Sherlock. "Breathe, calm down, don't want you passing out again. Sherlock?"

"He's…..John…He's…."

"In a coma." Ricki informed him calmly. "But alive."

Sherlock's chest clenched painfully, his head snapping around. "Coma?"

Ricki nodded. "I would have told you, but you passed out."

"People don't necessarily wake up from coma's." the detective said, more to himself than the other man.

"Well, you two have a way of surprising the world. - I mean no one expected you two to start having a secret affair. In fact, I was convinced all the rumors about you two, well, about him were crap, get I lose the bet." Ricki joked.

Sherlock stared at the man. "You know about?"

Ricki got to his feet. "Of course I know; I've been watching you back for three fucking years Sherlock." he said, pulling a roll-up out of his jacket pocket.

Sherlock looked at him closely. "Huh. - You're my shadow."

The man shrugged. "Not the technical term but good enough description." he dropped down into a nearby chair.

Sherlock sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the wall. "Richard?"

"Nope, he was a hundred percent genuine. You got that guy all on your own some. - Kinda felt sorry for the guy when you dumped him."

"I didn't dump him, he left me."

Ricki scoffed. "Like you didn't give him reason?"

"Shut up."

Ricki smirked a little, taking a pull of his cigarette.

"So…you going to get your coat? We have a train to catch."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the wall. "I can't. I can't go back to London. It's too dangerous. - And….She'll be there."

"She?" Ricki frowned for a moment. "Oh, ' _she'_. Don't worry, we'll make sure everyone's safe. Mycroft's already got Mrs. H and the Inspector under armed guard. - As for Mrs Watson, I'm sure she'll understand you're arrival. - After all, you are his best friend."

Sherlock glared at the smug look on the man's face and had the overpowering desire to punch it. "I can't just intrude."

Ricki laughed. "Now that doesn't sound anything like the Sherlock Holmes I've read about. Since when do you care about intruding?"

"Since John."

Ricki waited for the rest of that sentence, but it seemed that was all he was going to say.

"Well, Mr. Consulting Detective, you're brother demands you're presence in London immediately, with or without your cooperation."

Sherlock glared up at him. "Meaning?"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way. But either way, you're going to London."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock slouched down in his seat, his gaze fixed out of the window where he watching France speed away. He was still unsure that returning to England was the right decision, as much as he was desperate to get to John's side, all he could think about was the dangers.

"Oh, Mycroft thought you might want these." Ricki said around his roll-up, holding out a crumpled brown file.

Sherlock frowned at it for a second before snatching it from Ricki's long fingers.

"Thank  _you_." he grumbled, but the detective ignored him.

Sherlock opened the file and scanned the papers, memos and noted about Moriarty's web, everything Mycroft had learnt over the past three years. It seemed his brother had been keeping a lot of secrets. Like the fact that he'd located all but one of Moriarty's henchmen. There was only one left out there, the one with John's name carved into a bullet.

Knowing that was both a relief and a greater concern. If John was the only one left in danger, was returning to him a good idea. Shouldn't they wait until they'd found that hitman? Sherlock was still contemplating this when he turned the page and froze.

He stared down at photos, crime scene photos of John's accident. Only as Sherlock stared at the twisted, dented and battered black cab, he knew it was no accident. The real proof came when he turned to the next photo and saw something he hoped never to see again. In blood, John's blood most provably, on the back cracked window were written three letters  **I. O. U**. His stomach dropped and his whole body trembled. He knew it couldn't be Moriarty, but it was clearly a message from beyond the gave.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock had expected to be dragged to Mycroft's offices, or to The Diogenes Club. He wasn't expecting the unmarked car to pull up outside a back entrance to St Bartholomew hospital. Ricki stepped out first, glancing around the area before waving his hand at Sherlock. Usually the detective would have made some insulting comment but he was frantic to get to John's side. Wife be damned.

He would have shoved Ricki out of the way but the man send him a stare that said he'd happily shoot him if he tried it, and blame the whole thing of the mysterious hitman. And while Sherlock doubted the MI6 man would risk his own life in such a fool hardy way, he didn't feel confident enough to take the risk. So he waited and allowed Ricki to lead the way up the back stairs and onto the ward.

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the room. He knew Mary would be in there, waiting by her husband's side, watching over him. It was going to be awkward, and Sherlock despised awkward. Ricki paused outside a door and glanced in through a small window.

"Alright, you're up." he said, folding his arms and leaning causally against the wall.

Sherlock heart felt like his was going to burst right out of his chest and splatter all over the wall. He feared what he would see upon entering that room. Feared meeting Mary and having to lie about what he and John were to each other. It wasn't like Sherlock minded lying, he was good at it, he did it all the time. He'd done it for three years. But for some reason deny him and John felt impossible.

He felt Ricki watching him and straightened his back, took a deep breath and pushed the door open without looking through the window. To his surprised he found the room empty but for John. Lying unconscious on the bed, breathing tubes trailing from his mouth, his left arms in a cast and his head wrapped in bandages. On unsteady feet Sherlock stepped forward, slowly, step by step getting closer to his friend, his John.

John was paler than usual, almost deathly white. He had dark rings under his eyes that weren't from the accident but for months of sleepless nights. Sherlock stopped at his side, looking down at him, taking in everything. Or trying to. For once he couldn't see a thing. Not passed his own worry and pain. All he saw was John, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, fighting to stay alive. All he saw is that he'd done this. He'd put his friend, his only friend, someone he love more than people could even contemplate, at death's door.

"You should never have met me." Sherlock whispered hoarsely, his hand reaching out to touch the exposed fingers of John's left hand. "I've done nothing but ruin your life." His legs finally gave beneath him and he felt backwards onto the chair, that Mary had probably only just left as it was still warm.

Sherlock leant forward, resting his forehead on the edge of the bed and moaning roughly. He could feel the tears again, burning, scolding his eyes from the inside out. He didn't bother to hold them back. Sherlock Holmes may not show weakness, he may not show emotions, but that didn't mean he didn't have them and right now, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, he was Sherlock, heartbroken human.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Sherlock didn't know how long he'd sat there, it felt like hours. His back was beginning to hurt from the odd position he was in. Sighing he got to his feet and stretched, glancing at the door. He couldn't help but wonder where Mary was. Wasn't it proper for a wife, a pregnant loving wife at that, to be an impossible force? Shouldn't he have been wedged to the chair Sherlock had just abandoned? He frowned as he considered this. Did she know? He shook his head. No that wasn't possible; she would have remained here and demanded he leave. That's what women did. Or so he'd been lead to believe.

Sherlock glanced down at John again, seeing the subtle movement of his eyes beneath there lids. She looked so much younger lying there like that, young and handsome and perfect, but then for Sherlock John had never been anything else. He just hadn't allowed himself to realize it.

Sherlock stretched again, his arms reaching up over his head and he made a loud groan that if John hadn't been in a coma could have been taken the wrong way. Actually, if John hadn't been in a coma, it would have been taken the right way. He corrected himself.

He glanced at his watch. He had been there half an hour. Looking at the hospital room door he frowned again. Deeper this time. Where was Mary Watson? It wasn't that he wanted to see her, but he was beginning to feel angry at her abandonment. Why wasn't she there?

Sherlock was turning to head to the door when it happened, the sound piecing the silence of the room. He acted on instinct, ducking his head and driving to protect John, even though he was the one in greater danger. He stared at the window as it shattered, another shot colliding with the wall. He pressed his body harder against John's and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet that would send him to that grave already carrying his name.

He heard the door of the room fly open, heard his name being yelled and then felt the pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and stared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys I think there may only be one or two more chapters after this. And yeah, I know you hate me for the cliff-hanger but hey, it's what I do. I'm sure you've all worked out who the assassin is. Right?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said there'd only be a couple more chapters, but I'm not sure that's true. We'll see how it goes. Anyway, enjoy and if again there are any mistake. SORRY :(

"You got them?" Ricki yelled to someone before taking off out of the hospital room door.

Sherlock turned, looking at the blood seeping out of his shoulder as bullets continued to impact the wall. When he lifted his gaze his eyes opened wide in surprise.

"Get down."

"What about John?"

"He'll be fine."

Sherlock allowed the woman to drag him to the flood. He was still staring at her, utter shock which considering this was Sherlock Holmes, a man known by many as being unshockable it said a lot. His mind was tumbling over itself to put things together, dusting off cogs that hadn't been used in years, and coming up with the explanation.  _Mycroft_. He was going to kill Mycroft.

The gun fire stopped finally and the woman peeked up over the bed, looking at the shattered window, then at the bed. She got to her feet and leant over him, her hands searching him for any sign of wound. Sherlock followed after her, watching her check John. His gut painfully tight with jealousy and anger, how could she do that to him?

"You're one of Mycroft's people." it wasn't a question.

Mary's back straightened and she slowly turned to meet the furious gaze of her employer's younger brother. "Yes."

"He made you marry John."

Mary pressed her lips together, not so much as flinching, her back utterly straight. So completely different to the woman he'd seen in the restaurant all those months ago. "Make is a strong term. Asked is preferable."

Sherlock's jaw clenched dangerously. "Why?"

Mary's hand gripped around her weapon, staring at the detective, challenging him to figure it out himself. If he was that good, Sherlock took the challenge, staring at the woman from head to toe. "To protect him from whoever that was. - And because…you're in love with my brother." that really made him frown, the idea of anyone loving Mycroft was ridiculous. " _Seriously_?"

Mary stiffened. "Mr. Holmes is a good man." she stated neither denying or confirming Sherlock analysis.

They continued to stare at each other.

"So, you do love John then?" Sherlock asked in a quiet voice.

"Of course I do. He is impossible not to love. - And you can't do this and not love them just a little."

"But you're not in love with him." Sherlock stated.

"No."

Sherlock glared. "So you used him."

Mary's features hardened. "I protected him. Kept him safe for three years, because you had to go and get a price put on his head." Mary said angrily.

Sherlock set his jaw defiantly. "What would you have done if I hadn't come back?"

Mary smirked a little. "I think you mean if you hadn't started sleeping with him."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Ricki."

Mary smirked. "Paris was…unintentional, I had no idea John was going to do something so….unexpected."

Sherlock scoffed. He would have known.

"Once I found out, we had a meeting. We'd planned to keep the pair of you from meeting, but it seemed fate had her own plans."

"Fate does not exist." Sherlock stated confidently.

"Doesn't it?" Mary smirked.

"Anyway…" Mary continued. "…once Ricki saw you together….interesting distraction technique by the way, utterly ridiculous but interesting…. We knew our only option was to make sure no one else saw you together." she shrugged, sitting on the end of the bed. "Of course we had no idea that your meeting would lead to…." she winked at him suggestively. "You should have seen Mycroft's face when he was informed." she chuckled. "You would have loved it."

Sherlock smirked for a split second, just picturing it. "That didn't answer my question. What would you have done?" he snapped.

Mary sighed. "Nothing; would have carried on as was, stayed married."

"Had more children?"

Mary shrugged, running her hand over her small bump. "Probably. - I'm not the first person to do this kind of thing."

Sherlock didn't say anything, knowing it was true. "What about…." he nodded at her stomach.

"What about it?" she frowned. "It is John's, if that's what you're asking, consequence of his guilt after his night with you."

Sherlock swallowed hard, his head pounding. "It wasn't a night, it was an afternoon."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"What will you do?" Sherlock asked a little nervously.

"Meaning?"

Sherlock glared at her, she knew exactly what he meant. What he was asking.

"Nothing."

Sherlock took a sharp breath.

"Don't worry Sherlock. Divorce is on the cards. I doubt John would stay married to me once he discovers the truth….even if he wanted to."

"If he wakes up?" Sherlock murmured, walking around the bed to the other side to take John undamaged hand.

Mary got to her feet and stared between them, a soft smile tugging at her lips and something at her heartstrings. "He'll wake up. Now you're here."

Sherlock say a thing.

"One thing." Mary said softly, walking to his side.

"What? - Ahhh." he turned to glare at the woman as she removed her fingers from his injured arm. "What was that for?"

"Putting him through hell this last three months. Dammit Sherlock, you couldn't have just answer his damn phone calls. Do you know what it's been like living with him? He puts bears with sore heads to shame."

"I - I did it for his own good. - Alright, for both our own good. I knew he'd never leave you now that you're pregnant and I didn't want to put him in that position."

"So you decided to cut all ties, rather than say tell him." She shook her head. " _Men_."

"Everyone alright?" Ricki asked breathlessly from the door.

Mary smirked. "Well, Sherlock's got a hole in his shoulder; he's pissed at me about this…" she gestured to her stomach. "…and may kill you later for spy on their sex romp…" she laughed. "But other than that, we're all good."

Ricki looked from the red head to Sherlock, taking in the dangerous spark in his eyes. "Oh. Well, that's alright then. - I called Smiley, he's probably not breaking the speed limit as we speak."

"Did you get the shooter?" Sherlock asked angrily. Did they people not understand the idea of priorities?

"Nuh." Ricki shook his head, actually looking annoyed and regretful. "He was gone by the time I got there."

"Dammit Ricki!" Sherlock yelled.

"Hey genius, who the fuck you shouting at." taking a threatening couple of steps.

Mary moved between them. "Wooo boys, calm it." she place a hand on Ricki's chest. "Rick, go see about getting Sherlock a nurse to deal with his arm."

"What am I his fucking butler?"

Mary smirked. "Until the boss says otherwise, yes." she pointed at the door.

Ricki sent her a defiant challenging look but went anyway. "I'll be fucking glad when this shits over." he grumbled as he went.

"That makes two of us." Sherlock called after him.

Mary grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him around the bed to the chair. "Sit."

Sherlock didn't move, staring down at her. "I do not take orders."

"Yes you do. From him." she nodded at the bed. "But as he's currently out of commission at present, as his wife I'm taking over. Now sit."

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

Mycroft arrived about ten minutes later, walking into the hospital room in that smug manner of his, his umbrella swinging at his side. He nodded at Ricki and Mary before turning his attention to Sherlock, who was being tended to by a nurse for his gunshot wound, an orderly sweeping up the broken glass.

"Haven't they gotten you a new room yet?" Mycroft complained loudly.

"They're preparing one now, sir." Mary answered, looking at the older man like he was the second coming or something.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly the woman was unhinged. "Mycroft." He acknowledged coolly.

"Sherlock."

The brothers stared at each other, neither speaking. They didn't need to, they got everything they need to know with a single look.


	13. Chapter 13

John slowly came around, his head was pounding and his whole body felt like there was an elephant sitting on him. He tried to open his eyes but they were too heavy. He could hear voices, distant, like he was in some kind of tunnel. It took in a few minutes to recognize most of them, but Sherlock's he pinpointed instantly. He focused on the voice while trying to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there. But the darkness pulled in back under too quickly to capture anything of importance.

He came back around an eternity later, to silence. Finally he was able to open his eyes, just a little at first. It was too dark to see where he was and his mind was still a blur of thoughts. Frowning, he tried to speak. To say the one name he could remember clear as day. But he couldn't get the words out past the blockage in his throat. Panic took over. Sudden realization crashing down on him, memories of past incidents, gun fire, sulphur and blood, his heart began to pound in his chest, the sound of a heart monitor ringing in his ears.

"John? John."

 _Sherlock_. It was Sherlock, leaning over him, his hand on his shoulder.

"John calm down, you're fine, you're safe."

John wanted to talk but could. His eyes pleaded with the man hovering over him.

"Stay calm. I'll get someone."

John's hand flew out to grip the detectives arm. Sherlock nodded and turned his head at the door opened.

"He's away. Get this damn tube out."

"It needs to…."

"Get it out!" Sherlock yelled.

A few moments later there was a doctor on the other side of him talking to him in a low calming voice. "Alright Dr. Watson, You know how this goes. Take a deep breath and…."

John used his throat muscles to push the tubing out of his airway, gagging at he felt it slide out. When it was gone, he took gasping breathes. He turned to glance at the detective, the soft light of the hostile lamp highlighting his cheekbones and golden hair.  _Golden hair?_  "S-sher-lock." he croaked.

Sherlock leaned forward, his ear closer to John's lips. "Yes, John."

"Wa-sh t-that s-shit out of…." he couched and winced at the discomfort. "…your h-hair."

Sherlock burst into laughter, running his hand through said hair. "You don't like?"

John shook his head, wincing at the pain in his body.

Sherlock looked at the doctor and nurse. "Problem?"

The pair left quickly leaving the pair alone, with the parting promise to check back in a few hours. Once they were gone, Sherlock leant closer, his lips an inch from John. "I'll fix it as soon as you're out of here." them pressed a gentle kiss to the dry chapped lips.

"W-where is….here?" John croaked.

Sherlock sat back into the chair he hadn't left since his arrival yesterday morning. "St Barts. - You were in an accident….well, I say accident."

Slowly recollection returned. The taxi, the crash, he'd been on his way to see Sherlock because he hadn't spoken to him months. John's eyes locked on the detective. "Wh-at are….you…doing here?"

Sherlock's grin faltered and his Adam's apple bobbed, a lot. "I…you want me to go."

John's hand shot out as Sherlock stood. "Pr-at…." he coughed again and tugged Sherlock closer.

The detective reached for the jug of water and poured some into a glass before yanking open the top draw and grabbing the small square sponges on stick. Dipping it in water, he ran it over John's lips. "Better?"

John shook his head. "But…it'll…do." he gasped.

"You can have a proper drink in a little while, as soon as you're throats less…"

"What…are you…" John swallowed. "…doing…."

"Mycroft sent someone to get me." Sherlock answered before John was even finished.

John's gaze travelled around the room. "M-Mary?"

Sherlock stiffened. "She….gone to rest."

John nodded understandingly.

The pair fell silent. Sherlock returning to his chair, slouching back into it.

"S-Sherlock?"

"Yes John."

"Wh-at did you tell…Mary?"

"Nothing John. - just rest, well discuss everything later." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John sighed, giving himself over to the sleep that was demanding his presence.

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

"How is he?"

"He woke up around 2AM." Sherlock informed the young woman.

Mary walked over to a sleeping John, her hands brushing at his cheek. "He's good though? No…damage?"

"He doesn't seem to have suffered from any long term affects." Sherlock said stiffly.

"You still pissed at me, aren't you?" Mary asked, settling on the other chair.

"No."

"Huh, jealous then?" Mary smirked, looking at the sleeping doctor.

Sherlock stiffened in his seat. "He's going to hate you, you know, when he finds out."

Mary sighed, her smile fading instantly. "I know. And he has every right too. - But he'll get over it." she forced a smile again. "Think of it this way, he actually gets his cake and eats it. - He gets to go back to saving the country from the criminal underworld with you, with the added extras…." she winked. "…we get an amicable divorce, and he doesn't have to carry around any guilt for abandoning a pregnant wife. And he's going to be a father."

Sherlock's head snapped around to stare at the woman.

"What? You thought because this was all a cover job, that I was going to take off with the kid and never let him see it? What kind of person do you take me for? John's a great guy; he'll make a great father. - Now he gets to have you too, he can start enjoying the prospect. - I wouldn't dare take that away from him."

Sherlock looked back to John, his mind tumbling over itself.

"What's wrong, not up for parenthood?" Mary teased.

"I…never considered it."

The red head settled back into her seat, arms folded. "Well, get considering Sherlock, cause we've only got another six months until sprout is out and then you'll be play step-dad. - Assuming you're not about to freak out and split?" she frowned.

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped. "I have no intention of leaving him again."

"Good." Mary grinned. "We'll be one big happy family, You, John, Me and the little one."

Sherlock turned to stare at her. "You're forgetting Mycroft." then chuckled as her cheeks turned scarlet.

"Bugger off." She swatted his arm.

"Sh..erlo…ck?" John groaned.

"I'm here."

"I'll get the nurse." Mary said.

John frowned, lifting his head enough to see the red head leave. "Mary?"

"She'll be right back." Sherlock whispered. "Just lay back."

"You…can't tell her…Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. He was tempted to just say it now. Tell John just what his brother had done, but he was too scared what it would do to him. "I won't."

Mary returned a few moments later with a nurse in toe.

"How are we feeling Dr. Watson?"

"Like I've been….in a c-ar ac-cident. Oh, wait, I have." he croaked, his voice growing stronger by the minute.

The nurse smiled at him. "How's the pain? Do you need anything?"

"My heads pounding and his whole body aches, so yes please."

"I'll see what I can do." the woman nodded, before rushing off.

"Jesus John, you almost gave me a heart attack." Mary scolded.

John looked from Sherlock to Mary. "I'm….sorry, sweet…heart." the last word catching in his throat.

"Don't sweetheart me." Mary smirked.

John's eyes widened and Sherlock nudged her, shaking his head.

"What's go-ing on?" John frowned, looking between the pair. "Oh,  _God_. Sherlock you said you hadn't…."

"I didn't." Sherlock sighed, sending Mary daggers. "She already knew."

John's gaze shot to his wife. "Mary….I can….I can explain. I…It…"

Mary stood with her arms folded over her chest, watching her husband become more worked up and dangerously red in the face. She quickly stepped forward, placing her hand on his shoulder, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. "Calm down, John. Breathe. It's all going to be alright. Just stop freaking out."

John looked up at her. She seemed different. Not so….quiet, shy and sweet. "Huh?"

"We'll discuss  _everything_ when your better." she smiled, her hand rubbing absently at his shoulder.

"That's…not going…to be for weeks…Sherlock? What's going on?" he was looking more irritated than panicked at the moment and Sherlock groaned.

"Go on?" Sherlock indicated to John. "You started it." he snapped at Mary.

" _Me_? You're the one with the smart arse idea to throw your sorry ass off the top of the hospital."

John lay there utterly confused, concerned and increasingly sure he'd woken up in another dimension.

 

**~PARIS AFTER THE FALL~**

"You're what!" John yelled, ignoring the pain in his throat. He'd had the nurse help him into a sitting position, once he'd been checked over by the on call Doctor, all the while watching Mary and Sherlock interact with one enough. It hadn't been what he'd expected from their meeting. He'd thought there would be tears and accusations and things being thrown around the room, not calm conversations and a hind of jokiness. Of course now he knew why.

"MI6...officially." Mary said coolly.

"MI6.…So you work for…." he swallowed, his gaze snapping around to Sherlock. "Did you know?"

Sherlock shook his head, his lips pressed to his steepled fingers as he watched the argument ensue between the husband and wife.

"So what? Mycroft's been paying you to be with me."

"Technically." Mary said sadly. "But it was for your own safety." she defended swiftly.

"Oh, well as long as marrying me and pretending you loved me for a year and a half was for my own safety." he replied sarcastically.

"John." Mary sighed, sitting on the end of the bed. "We needed to keep you close, with some madman running around waiting to kill you if Sherlock ever reappeared, it was our only option."

John glared at the word ' _our_.'

"You cut yourself off after Sherlock….died. You moved out of Baker Street, you stopped speaking to Mrs. Hudson or the Inspector. You broke every tie holding you in place. Mycroft needed to keep you safe."

John clenched his jaw. Part of his brain knew she was right, but another part of him couldn't see past the betrayal. "So he dropped you in my lap?" he said scathingly.

Mary shrugged. "Seemed like the perfect option. We didn't realize just how far it was going to go." she said, playing with her wedding ring. "Mycroft thought you'd eventually return to Baker Street. When you purposed, I…"

"Had to say yes." John snarled.

Mary bit her lips.

"And the baby? Was that part of the plan to keep me safe?"

"No." Mary stated calmly. "This was purely an accident, a wonderful accident, but an accident none the less. - You surprised me in Paris. I didn't think you'd want to….after being with…." she glanced at Sherlock. "I didn't count of the guilt…it was guilt right?"

John dropped his gaze.

"Thought so, once I knew you'd met up with Sherlock; I figure you wouldn't want to have sex with me again, so I stopped taking my pill. My mistake." her hand ran over his stomach.

"So you knew where I was? - In Paris?" John swallowed.

"I was informed, yes."

"Why…didn't you say something?" John met her gaze.

"Like? - Oh, hey John, hear you met up with Sherlock again and fucked his brains out, want to go for dinner?" Mary raised a brow, smiling just a little at the redness in John's cheeks. "Oh and by the way, I'm actually working for his brother. - Yeah, that would have gone down well right. You're on the verge of killing me now, imagine what you would have been like then."

John took a couple of deep breaths and clenched his good fist. He wanted to be mad, no he was mad, but he got it, somewhere deep in the back of his mind he got it. Didn't mean he wasn't going to drag Mycroft over the coals when he saw him and it didn't mean that he wasn't hurt that what he'd shared with Mary was all a lie. But overall, he had what he wanted, Sherlock and a clean conscience.

"So what now?" he sighed, looking between the pair.

Mary shrugged. "The wacko's still out there. So I guess, we keep you two safe until we find him."

John chuckled a little.

"What?"

"Wacko? – I really don't know you?"

Mary smiled sadly. "You'd be surprised John. It's easier to lie with the truth, right Sherlock?"

"Huh?" Sherlock straightened. "What?"

John could help but laugh and then regretted it. "Jesus Sherlock."

"I did nothing."

"You never do." John groaned. "What are you thinking about, or shouldn't I ask?"

The look in the detective's eyes said he most definitely shouldn't ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're probably mad at me about John's reaction, but John's well, John. He doesn't really do angry unless really provoked and after a year and a half with Sherlock, I think he would take most things in his stride now. Besides, as Mary says, he gets to eat his cake ;) lol. Sherlock, clean conscience and a kid, how can he be pissed at that?


	14. Chapter 14

"Are you sure this is going to work?" John asked from his old seat beside the fire of 221B Baker Street.

It had been almost two months since John accident, two months since the mysterious assassin had tried to kill them thought the window of St. Barts. Once John had been released, they'd sat down and discussed the future and how exactly the baby was going to fit into all their lives, Sherlock was still a little unsure if he would be able to get used to having a child around but for John's sake alone, he was willing to try.

John divorce from Mary was already underway and looked to be settled quickly thanks to both parties be friendly and amicable. He'd moved out of their flat, - which apparently turned out wasn't exactly there's but one of Mycroft's safe houses. - and back into Baker Street with Sherlock, which had conveniently become available after Mrs Hudson tenant had left in the middle of the night, leaving a full month's rent.

John's confrontation had waited until he'd been released from hospital for the reason that he'd wanted to be able to stand on both feet when he swung his fist at the eldest Holmes brother, giving Mycroft a bloody nose and a reason to visit the dentist. Sherlock had discreetly reminded John that Mycroft position within the British government meant that he had accept to trained assassins, and then laughed as John's face turned deathly white and he spent almost a week convinced Mycroft was going to send in the SAS.

The news of Sherlock resurrection had been a surprised to everyone. Thought Lestrade had taken it with a grin and a murmured of "Should have known they couldn't kill you." While being obviously moved and relieved at his friends return. Mrs Hudson had had pretty much the same reaction as John. - As any mother would. - She's screamed at him for putting her poor heart through it, slapped him hard across the face, surprising even herself and then fell into his arms in tears for almost twenty minutes.

The papers reaction to the news was pretty much the same too. Spending almost a week slamming Sherlock for faking his death, critical of the reasons the 'government' had given for the necessity, and they praising him the returned hero and savior of London, one the truth about Richard Brooks AKA James Moriarty had been made public. All in all things were back to normal, except for one lose end.

"Of course it will work. My plans always work." Sherlock said confidently from sofa where he lounged in his blue dressing gown, his head resting against the arm of the couch. His hair was still short but slowly growing back but he'd kept his promise and returned to his natural dark colour.

John looked over at him with a raised brow, taking in the sight of his friend and…whatever else he was. They hadn't discussed they're 'relationship', they just took thinks one day at a time. Slipping back easily into the domestic life they'd shared before everything had hit the fan, with the added bonus of shagging. "You mean not counting the one that went down the swany three years ago?"

Sherlock looked over at him. "Well that was….different. I under estimated Moriarty, I do not have that problem with this person. They are clearly a moron." he stated.

"Right. Of course." John nodded, turning back to his paper.

"Patience is our weapon John. We just have to wait."

"We've been 'waiting' for almost three weeks. Maybe he or she isn't going to try again."

"Of course they will. This is personal."

John frowned over at his partner. "Personal?"

"Yes. It has to be. With Moriarty's web destroyed there is no way a normal assassin would risk his freedom trying to follow through with a dead man's plan. The only reason any one would is loyalty, which indicates a personal issue."

"So your say someone close to Moriarty is out for our heads? Like a brother or something?"

"He was an only child. Obviously. And I'd lay money on both his parents being dead, probably while he was still young. - It'll be someone he charmed. He said he wanted a pet when he visited me after the court case."

The way Sherlock looked at him, John knew the word had been aimed at him and his clenched his jaw, his paper crumpling in his hands as they tightened into fists. He all but jumped out of his skin when two strong hands settled on his shoulders and warm breath fanned his ear.

"Relax." Sherlock said in a low voice.

John did, back into Sherlock's hands as they rubbed the tension out of the muscles. "Mmm." he closed his eyes and let his head drop back.

Sherlock lent forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his partners lips, before pulling back just enough to whisper against them. "Stay calm."

John's eyes flew open to stare at Sherlock chin. "What?"

"I saw movement in the window."

John's heart was pounding, his hands tightening further around the newspaper. Sherlock kissed him again, whether to distract him or to play the part he didn't know.

"Sherlock, this better work." John murmured against the detectives lips.

"Trust me." Sherlock said, pulled back properly to look in John's eyes.

"Always have." John smiled. "God knows why."

Sherlock gave him a smug arrogant smirk as she straightened up fully, turned to head into the kitchen. John turned in his seat to watch him.

"What are you doing?"

"Making tea."

"Sherlock?"

There was the suddenly booming sound, not loud, kind of like a bucket being hit with a stick. John's head snapped around to stare at the large window, see a small dent. Then there was another. He held his breath and waited. Sherlock strolled past him to the window, were he crouched down to look at the small marks before straightening and looking out at the dark. Then he huffed, turned around with a flurry of blue dressing gown and headed back to the kitchen. John stood still for a few seconds before dropping back into his chair, his heart racing.

"Well. I guess….it's over?" he looked over his shoulder, where Sherlock was pouring boiling water into their mugs.

"Here." Sherlock said, handing one of the mugs over to him a few seconds later.

John nodded his thanks as he took it, watching Sherlock take his seat across from him, his legs crossed and his hands pressed to the sides of his own mug. They just stared at each other until the sound of police sirens could be heard and then there were heaving footsteps on the stairs. John looked at the door, Sherlock kept his gaze locked on John.

"We got him." Lestrade panted.

Sherlock gave his a slanted smile. "Good."

He took one mouthful of tea, set the cup down and jumped to his feet, throwing off his dressing gown. "Shall we?"

John looked up at him, misunderstanding the question at first.

"Meet our assassin John." Sherlock chuckled. "There is time for shagging later."

John dropped his head to his hand.

"Seriously, it's all he thinks about." He heard Sherlock say and groaned.

Five minutes and two red faces later, John, Sherlock and Lestrade exited 221 to see a man being loaded into the back of a police van, his hands cuffed behind his back. The detective and his blogger marched towards him, John's back military straight as always. When he saw the man's face he paused, his mouth falling open.

"Gordon?"

The assassin lifted his gaze to glare at the doctor and detective.

"You know him?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded. "Gordon Reece. He's a doctor at the surgery."

"Hardly." Sherlock shook his head. "I think they might need to pay more attention to who their hiring, and I thought you'd learnt to obverse." Sherlock remarked. "Surely you notice his military posture, very much like your own."

"He's a soldier." Lestrade asked.

"Dishonorably discharged for his treatment of enemy prisoners."

John looked at the man in disgust. "Oh, he's one of those."

"Names not Gordon Reece either."

"Nuh, Sebastian Moran." another voice said.

Sherlock turned to stare at Ricki, who'd been posted in the flat for the past three weeks, waiting for this night.

"You know him?" John asked, looking back at the prisoner as the police van doors slammed closed.

"Yeah. Sadly. Crossed paths with him while on a job in Iraq a few years ago, don't think he was involved with Moriarty's lot back then though."

"He wasn't. Moriarty probably sort him out."

"Because he wanted a pet?" John murmured.

"Exactly."

They watched the police van drive him away.

"Well, I better let Smiley know."

"He already does." Sherlock stated, pointing to the surveillance camera at the end of the street.

Ricki huffed. "Still, he'll expect me to call."

"You come to the station?" Lestrade asked his hands in his pockets.

"No. He won't be there long."

"What?" Greg frowned.

"Mycroft's people will probably take him off your hands in a few hours. - Besides, I promised John a shag." he smirked, heading back to the house.

"For fuck sake Sherlock." John yelled his face ablaze. "Stop telling everyone."

"Never John. Never."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm going to do one more chapter, an epilogue and then that's it for this story.
> 
> Anyone who's seen the Granada version of Sherlock Holmes will recognise the attempted assassination of Sherlock. I'm not sure if it's the same in the books. I wanted to use that but had to alter it as it's completely implausible that an assassin would mistake a wax dummy for Sherlock Holmes. So I decided to go for bulletproof glass instead. Care of one Mycroft Holmes.


	15. Chapter 15

**EPILOGUE**

 

"Ahhh! Jesus Christ!" John yelled, his head falling back against the pillow. He could feel more than hear Sherlock chuckled vibrate through his whole body, then he was there, hovering above him, a smirk in place, running his thumb over the corner of his mouth.

"Problem?"

John panted, eyes narrowed at the detective. "Never."

"Good."

Sherlock drop down in the bed next to his partner, his dark hair, slowly regaining it length, clinging to his forehead. "That is most definitely a more productive way to fight off boredom."

"Certainly saves on ammo." John chuckled.

The two men lay back against their individual pillows, staring up at the ceiling till their breathing was regulated, then Sherlock threw his legs off the side of the bed and marched utterly naked out of the room. John laughed at the sound of a female yelp.

"John! We have a client!"

John flew up in the bed and began to scrambled for his clothes. He'd assumed the woman had been Mrs Hudson, it wasn't the first time she'd walked in to find one or the other of them naked over the past few months.

"Oh, John if you wouldn't mind grabbing my robe."

John froze, suddenly remembering Sherlock was naked. With a client. Jesus.

Less than a second later John was rushing out of the bedroom, fastening his jean, a khaki green t-shirt hang around his neck and Sherlock robe over his shoulder. Sherlock was sat in his grey chair with his Union Flag cushion covering his modesty, while a young woman sat on the couch, staring at her feet, a face the colour of a beetroot. John flung the robe at his partner and pulled his t-shirt into place. Taking a breath he turned to the woman. "Hello. I'm Doctor Watson. Don't mind him."

The woman looked up at him through her lashes, blazing a deeper red. "I - This is a bad time…..I come back."

"Sit." Sherlock ordered. "Talk."

"Sherlock." John scolded.

"I do not have time for nonsense. If she has a case she can tell me now or she can leave and not come back. Now sit down and pay attention. Where's you're notebook?"

John smiled apologetically at her as he took his chair, taking his book from the small table beside him. "Seriously Sherlock, I don't know why I put up with you?"

"Because I'm exciting, funny and charming." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Not to mention the best shag you're ever had."

John groaned and closed his eyes. He was well past embarrassment by now, but he did feel sorry for the young woman. "I don't know where you got that impression." John murmured, not looking at anyone.

"You. - You've said it on countless occasion."

John blushed. "Huh…Sooo the case. What exactly is it you need Miss….?"

Miss Harvey's case turned out to be a six on Sherlock's scale but he worked it anyway because he was bored and John refused to have sex with him until he helped the woman locate her missing husband. Who as it turned out was leading a double life as a homeless street beggar.

They'd been on their way home when Mary called to inform them that she was in labour, so the cab to Baker Street was diverted to St. Bart's. John was Mary's birthing partner, obviously, leaving Sherlock to pace the corridors of the hospital with Mrs Hudson, who'd been called from the cab.

Mycroft had arrived a few minutes after the older woman, to sit with his legs crossed on the uncomfortable plastic chairs, twirling his umbrella in his fingers.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mary is an employee." Mycroft said as if that was an answer.

Sherlock stared at his brother. "And you usually visit your employees when there giving birth?"

"Of course not, but this is a special case. After all, this child will be a pseudo nephew or niece, I think it's only right that I be here."

Sherlock stared at his brother intently, unsure whether he believed a word of what was being said.

They feel silent, Mrs Hudson brought them disgusting hospital coffee which none of them drank, talking aimlessly about redecoration the flat until neither man could stand it any more.

"How are things going with Moran?" Sherlock asked casually.

"To say the man is insane would be an understatement."

"Obviously, he got involved with Moriarty didn't he."

"Yes, but he's convinced the man isn't really dead and that he'll come back for revenge."

Sherlock shook his head knowing that the Irishman was dead, he'd seen him blow his own brains out. "Well, as long as you keeping him well and truly under lock and key, he can believe anything he likes."

"We're moving him to a specialist facility. He'll never see the light of day."

"Good." Mrs Hudson said from between the two men.

It was another twenty minutes before John appeared at the end of the corridor. Sherlock leapt to his feet, swiftly followed by Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, all looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, surprisingly eager.

"It's a boy." John grinned proudly.

"Congratulations John." Mycroft said stiffly with a nod.

Mrs Hudson rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the doctor's neck and hugging him tight. "That's wonderful dearie. Just wonderful. Can we see him?"

John nodded. "In a minutes, there moving Mary to her room."

Finally Sherlock stepped forward, looking down at the slightly older man. The man he'd died to protect, who fate had brought back into his life only to threaten to take away. The man he loved before he even knew what love was. He wasn't crying. He's swear he wasn't crying. It was the detergent.

"Hey." John smiled softly, wiping his thumb across Sherlock cheek. "What's wrong?"

The detective swallowed and shook his head but couldn't speak at that moment so he dropped his mouth to John's and kissed him.

"Congratulation." he whispered against John's lips.

John pulled back to look into Sherlock shining ocean colored eyes. "You alright? You're not going to freak out on me are you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"So, you're good with this?"

A nod.

John narrowed his gaze, before pulling Sherlock back down for another kiss. "What you say we go see you're step-son?"

Sherlock looked uneasy for a moment then nodded. With his arm uncharacteristically around Sherlock's waste he led everyone down the hall to meet the latest addition to their unique modern family. Ben Watson.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, that's it. The end of the road. I hope it didn't suck too badly, I hate writing endings.
> 
> Would like to thank everyone for taking the time to read and review this work, you're kind words of encouragement always keep me forced. I hope it was satisfactory and would like to apologise for the spelling and grammar mistakes that have haunted this work. I just, well honestly, I don't have the patience for a beta and I didn't expect this story to go one this long. I figured it would only be a couple of chapters at most.
> 
> Well that's it from me for now. I'm off to try and finish the sequel to Withdrawal. Fingers crossed I'll have something soon.
> 
> See you soon, maybe.
> 
> Hugs and love
> 
> GATERGIRL
> 
> xxx

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [Sherlock - After The Fall](http://gatergirl79.deviantart.com/art/Sherlock-After-The-Fall-318195922) by ~[Gatergirl79](http://gatergirl79.deviantart.com/) on [deviantART](http://www.deviantart.com)  
> [Johnlock - After The Fall - Secret Meeting](http://gatergirl79.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-After-The-Fall-Secret-Meeting-320138474) by ~[Gatergirl79](http://gatergirl79.deviantart.com/) on [deviantART](http://www.deviantart.com)


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